Closet 


- 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  BLUE  CLOSET 


OF  CALIF.   LIBRABY,   LOS  MGBLES 


THE   KEY 

OF 
THE  BLUE   CLOSET 

BY 
W.   ROBERTSON   NICOLL 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,    MEAD   &   COMPANY 
1906 


Stack 
Annex 

FT5 

5"llO 


TO 
JANE  T.  STODDART 


2137344 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  ONE  LIGHTS  A  CANDLE  CALLED  PATIENCE         ...  1 

II.  "  NEVER  WEAR  A  BROWN    HAT    IN    FRIESLAND  "  10 

III.  THE  KEY  OF  THE  BLUE  CLOSET        18 

IV.  THE  GOODMAN'S  CROFT 27 

V.  DR.  ROBERT  A.  NEIL      38 

VI.  "  NEVER  CHEW  YOUR  PILLS  " SO 

VII.  THE  ONE  FACT  MORE      59 

VIII.  "B.A.,  D.J." 68 

IX.  CONCERNING  EELS 78 

X.  SWELLED  HEAD        85 

XI.  THE  VALUE  or  A  MARGIN        95 

XII.  SAILING  AGAINST  THE  WIND 105 

XIII.  "  OBSERVE    THE    FLIGHT     OF    YONDER    SOLITARY 

CROW"        112 

XIV.  DRIVING  A  HOOP:    A  SUGGESTION  FOR  CHRISTMAS  121 
XV.  THE  HOUSE  OF —             130 

XVI.  POTATOES  or  CABBAGE  ? 139 

XVII.  THE  MAN  WITH  A  COLD          147 

XVIII.  THE  DUAL   LIFE  :    CHARLOTTE   BRONTE,  GEORGE 

ELIOT,  AND  JANE  AUSTEN 156 

XIX.  IN  THE  WORLD  OF  JANE  AUSTEN     166 

XX.  "THERE  MUST  BE   MANY  A  PAIK  or  FRIENDS"  177 

XXI.  DR.  ALEXANDER  BAIN     187 

XXII.  CONCERNING  SPECTACLES 199 

XXIII.  THE  ART  OF   PACKING     208 

XXIV.  "WORK -DRUNKENNESS" 215 

XXV.  "  MELTED  DOWN  FOR  THE  TALLOW  TRADE"      . . .  224 

XXVI.  "EHEU  EVELINA" 233 

XXVII.  THE  TRAGEDY  OF  FIRST  NUMBERS 243 

XXVIII.  MR.  R.  H.  HUTTON  OF  THE  "  SPECTATOR"      ...  251 

XXIX.  JAMES  PAYN 271 

XXX.  DR.  GEORGE  MACDOXALD         284 


The  Key  of  the  Blue  Closet 

CHAPTER  I 

ONE    LIGHTS    A    CANDLE    CALLED    PATIENCE 

"  WHAT  does  one  end  by  doing  when  all  the  best  is 
taken  away  from  one,  when  life  has  grown  trivial, 
stunted,  and  narrow;  when  the  sun  of  one's  happi- 
ness is  set?  "  This  is  the  question  put  by  Lucas 
Malet's  heroine  in  the  Wages  of  Sin  to  her  uncle, 
and  he  answers :  "  After  a  time,  Polly,  not  at  once — 
that  would  be  asking  too  much  of  poor  human 
nature — but  after  a  time,  my  dear,  one  lights  a 
candle  called  Patience,  and  guides  one's  footsteps 
by  that."  She  asks  whether  he  speaks  of  his  own 
experience,  and  he  tells  her  the  story  of  a  courtship 
which  had  gone  forward  and  ended  over  thirty  years 
before.  "To  the  best  of  my  ability  I  lighted  that 
candle  the  day  your  mother  told  me  which  of  the  two 
brothers  who  loved  her  she  loved  best.  It  burnt  very 
badly  at  first,  Polly,  did  my  candle — guttered,  had 
thieves  in  the  wick ;  and  meanwhile  I  stumbled  pretty 
freely.  But,  by  God's  grace,  it  has  burnt  brighter 
as  time  has  gone  by — burns  brightly  enough  now,  as 


THE    KEY   OF    THE    BLUE    CLOSET 

I  humbly  trust,  to  light  me  down  the  long  hill  of  old 
age  without  any  very  discreditable  tumbles."  He 
drew  a  little  faded  miniature  from  its  hiding-place. 
"  There  is  my  romance,"  he  said.  "  This  is  like  her ; 
but  you  are  more  like.  And  so  you  are  very  dear  to 
me  for  sake's  sake,  as  well  as  for  your  own.  Try  to 
light  your  candle  of  Patience,  my  Polly,  in  faith; 
remembering  that  you  are  not  alone.  More  than 
half  the  noblest  men  and  women  you  meet  carry  such 
candles  likewise." 

The  ordinary  troubles  and  worries  of  life  are  not 
in  question,  but  to  most  of  us,  sooner  or  later,  there 
comes  a  heavy  blow.  We  realise  at  once  that  this 
stroke  is  other  than  the  rest,  that  we  are  not  going 
to  get  over  it  easily,  that  we  may  never  get  over  it 
at  all.  It  may  be  the  appearance  of  some  incurable 
disease.  We  have  been  uneasy  for  a  long  time,  and 
have  said  little.  One  day  we  muster  strength  to  go 
to  a  great  specialist  and  come  out  trying  to  smile 
with  white  lips.  Or  it  may  be,  as  in  Lucas  Malet's 
story,  that  we  fail  conclusively  in  love,  fail  to  attain 
our  heart's  desire,  knowing  all  the  while  with  a  sure 
knowledge  that  there  is  no  reparation,  that  the  heart 
will  ache  with  longing  to  the  end.  Or  perhaps  in  the 
business  of  our  life  we  may  meet  with  some  overthrow 
so  great,  so  conclusive,  that  there  is  no  chance  of 
setting  right  what  has  gone  wrong.  Or  perhaps  it 
may  suddenly  become  clear  to  us  that  we  are  prison- 
ers for  life.  The  circumstances  in  which  we  are  set 
have  been  very  uncongenial,  but  we  have  always 


A  CANDLE   CALLED  PATIENCE 

fancied  either  that  we  could  open  the  door  when  we 
pleased,  or  at  least  that  some  day  the  door  would  be 
opened  for  us,  and  we  should  enter  on  happier,  more 
hopeful  years.  I  know  men  who  have  been  doing 
their  life-work  with  hardly  one  ray  of  encourage- 
ment. They  have  done  their  best;  but  things  have 
been  against  them.  They  have  been  working,  let  us 
say,  in  a  dying  town,  from  which  there  has  been  a 
constant  exodus  of  the  more  hopeful  and  progressive 
elements.  Increase  in  any  form  cheers  the  heart. 
Decrease,  when  it  is  continuous,  dulls  it  in  an 
extraordinary  way.  Well,  they  have  believed  up 
to  a  certain  point  that  they  could  go  like  the  rest, 
and  one  day  they  find  out  that  nobody  wants  them, 
that  there  is  no  other  place  for  them,  that  there  they 
must  remain  to  the  end,  that  their  lips  can  never  be 
touched  with  the  potent  wine  of  triumphant  joy.  Or 
perhaps  some  sudden  bereavement  makes  all  things 
different,  and  covers  the  land  with  mist. 

What  is  to  be  done  in  these  circumstances? 
Surely  the  best  thing  to  do  is  to  light  a  candle 
called  Patience.  How  can  we  light  that  candle,  and 
keep  it  burning  all  the  way  to  the  end? 

In  the  first  place,  we  must  be  very  quiet. 
"  Patience,"  says  Bunyan,  "  was  very  quiet."  It 
will  not  serve  us  to  indulge  in  idle  rage  or  yeasty 
fury.  It  will  not  serve  us  to  be  fretful,  querulous, 
feeble.  Raving  and  grumbling  are  alike  absolutely 
forbidden.  Better  face  the  fact  that  we  have  to 
suffer  solely,  to  suffer  long,  perhaps  to  suffer  for 

3 


THE    KEY   OF    THE    BLUE    CLOSET 

all  the  rest  of  life.  This  Is  so,  and  nothing  can 
change  it.  We  shall  make  it  worse  if  we  kick  against 
the  pricks.  We  must  first  of  all  be  quiet. 

Then  we  must  try  to  keep  alive  some  spark  of 
hope.  The  first  thing  I  should  say  to  anyone  in  the 
dust  of  a  sudden  blow  is,  Hope  on.  This  is  not  a 
religious  letter,  and  so  I  do  not  propose  to  speak  of 
the  consolations  of  Christianity.  I  am  content  to 
say  that  we  should  resolve  to  wait  and  see  what  time 
will  do  for  us.  Of  course  in  a  certain  sense  time  does 
nothing  at  all.  It  is  what  takes  place  in  time  that 
helps  us,  that  soothes  the  pain,  that  heals  the  wound. 
Time  is  full  of  surprises,  and  some  of  them  are 
joyful.  A  merciful  mist  hangs  over  the  future. 
But  no  future  is  wholly  darkened.  All  the  time  the 
healing  forces  of  nature  and  of  society  are  at  work 
upon  us.  If  we  will  not  fall  into  utter  despair  we 
shall  find,  after,  it  may  be,  many  days  and  months, 
that  it  is  not  with  us  as  it  once  was.  A  man  may  go 
on  for  years  slowly  counting  the  hours,  longing  that 
they  might  pass  quickly  and  bring  with  them  their 
balm. 

I  have  known  men  who  in  their  misery  have 
looked  daily  at  the  calendar,  and  counted  the  leaden 
weeks,  saying  in  their  hearts,  "  When  I  have  lived 
through  such  and  such  a  period  I  shall  begin  to  be 
better."  Sometimes  the  relief  is  delayed  till  the 
heart  fairly  sinks ;  but  if  the  candle  called  Patience 
is  kept  burning,  the  day  will  come,  not  perhaps  of 
full  cure,  but  of  alleviation.  On  some  morning  we 

4 


A  CANDLE   CALLED  PATIENCE 

shall  find  that  the  pain  is  less  sharp.  It  has  not 
gone,  but  it  does  not  burn  and  sting  as  it  used  to  do. 
There  will  be  a  revival,  however  faint,  of  interest  in 
passing  things.  There  may  even  be  for  once,  and 
that  is  most  hopeful,  the  forgetting  of  some  dreadful 
anniversary.  Yes,  it  may  be  true  for  the  worst 
sufferers  that  the  joys  of  their  life  are  yet  to  come. 
However  slow  recovery  may  be,  let  it  once  begin,  and 
it  will  go  on.  It  will  begin,  I  think,  when  the  time 
passes  a  little  more  quickly,  when  one  ceases  to  say 
each  morning,  "  How  am  I  to  get  through  this  long 
day?  "  The  sorrow  may  remain.  It  may  be  impos- 
sible to  forget  it,  but  sometimes  it  may  be  put  far 
from  us,  and  of tener  it  may  be  contemplated  through 
the  softening  medium  of  thoughts  that  blend  sorrow 
with  hope.  Many  a  bitter  memory  is  recalled  at  last 
without  its  bitterness.  To  believe  this  is  to  light  a 
candle  called  Patience,  for  there  is  no  true  patience 
which  does  not  involve  an  element  of  hope. 

Once  more,  it  is  necessary  to  do  something.  To 
do  nothing  is  to  throw  up  the  arms  and  yield.  The 
heart  turns  upon  itself  in  morbid  contemplation,  eats 
itself  away.  It  is  best  to  go  on  with  our  regular 
work  as  soon  as  possible,  as  steadfastly  as  may  be, 
even  when  it  is  mere  weariness  and  burden,  without 
interest  of  any  kind.  By  and  by  it  will  be  wise  to 
ask,  "  Ls  it  possible  to  change  my  circumstances  ?  " 
If  that  question  has  to  be  answered,  as  so  often  it 
has  to  be  answered,  in  the  negative,  then  one  must 
ask,  "  How  can  I  conquer  my  circumstances  ?  "  It 

5 


THE   KEY  OF  THE   BLUE    CLOSET 

is  the  clear  duty  of  one  in  adverse  circumstances  to 
escape  from  them  if  he  can,  or  at  least  to  recast  or 
renovate  them,  to  mould  them  so  far  as  they  can  be 
moulded.  Thus  the  invalid  should  accept  the  verdict 
of  no  doctor,  but  do  his  utmost  to  recover  health. 
The  man  who  has  met  with  a  terrible  reverse  in  his 
work  or  business  ought  not  to  give  up  until  he  is 
quite  certain  that  the  reverse  is  irretrievable.  I  am 
convinced  that  multitudes  have  yielded  too  soon.  In 
the  lives  of  great  men  we  may  read  that  the  tide  often 
turned  just  when  they  were  on  the  point  of  despair. 
I  call  to  mind  Carlyle,  Napoleon,  Cromwell,  and 
many  others.  In  the  same  way,  the  surroundings 
which  are  hostile  to  the  life  and  peace  of  the  spirit 
may  be  escaped  from,  and  if  the  door  can  be  forced 
open  they  ought  to  be  escaped  from.  We  are  all  of 
us,  when  the  candle  called  Patience  goes  out,  apt  to 
give  over  hoping,  and  to  think  effort  is  of  no  use.  It 
is  not  true  that  steady  and  well-directed  labour  will 
achieve  anything,  but  it  is  true  that  wise  and  sus- 
tained effort  may  work  wonders. 

Still,  it  has  to  be  admitted  that  for  some  things 
there  is  no  remedy  but  patience.  There  are  diseases 
that  will  only  tighten  their  grasp  till  life  yields. 
Many  of  us  have  to  accept  pain  as  our  lifelong  com- 
panion ;  many  of  us  have  to  be  content  with  poverty. 
Many  of  us  have  to  live  in  a  moral  and  spiritual 
atmosphere  which  is  as  a  bitter  east  wind.  The 
sun  never  shines  upon  our  appointed  place,  never 
will  shine.  What  then?  We  must  call  forth  the 

6 


A  CANDLE   CALLED  PATIENCE 

resources  of  our  spirits.  We  must  respond  in  the 
right  way  to  circumstance,  that  the  soul  may  develop 
virtue  and  forbearance.  It  may  develop  much  more 
than  that,  even  a  far-reaching  human  sympathy  and 
helpfulness.  Two  of  the  most  beautiful  lives  I  have 
ever  witnessed,  lives  which  turned  houses  into  homes, 
were  lives  of  bitter  and  almost  unremitting  physical 
pain.  Often  when  the  fight  with  circumstance  is 
bravely  continued,  the  enemy  suddenly  yields,  and 
gladness  of  the  heart  comes  out  of  discouragement 
and  deprivation.  There  is  a  story  by  the  German 
novelist  Raabe  called  Abu  Telfan.  Abu  Telfan  is  a 
negro  village,  where  a  German  wanderer  is  kept  in 
slavery  for  ten  years.  He  worked  endlessly  in 
insufferable  heat,  he  suffered  incessantly  from  the 
whip.  At  the  end  of  ten  years  he  was  bought  out  of 
captivity  by  a  German  dealer  in  beasts  for  menage- 
ries, and  sent  home.  In  the  utter  misery  of  his  toil, 
misery  where  the  whole  nature  seemed  to  be  thwarted 
and  crushed  and  dwarfed,  his  soul  gathered  strength 
and  colour.  It  touched  the  reality  of  things ;  by 
endurance  there  came  a  certain  manliness  and  wis- 
dom. His  misery  brought  him  such  a  sense  of  the 
truth  of  tilings  that  he  was  not  deceived.  He 
mastered  the  essential  principle  of  all  stoicism,  which 
is  that  the  externals  are  nothing,  and  that  the  inner 
self  is  all.  There  is  no  plight  in  which  the  human 
spirit  can  find  itself  where  it  may  not  obtain  some 
mastery  of  circumstance.  This  can  be  achieved  by 
hope  and  by  steady  labour.  Whenever  effort  is 

7 


THE  KEY   OF  THE   BLUE    CLOSET 

abandoned  there  are  the  sad  refuges  of  drink  and 
drugs  and  suicide. 

So  I  say  that  to  light  a  candle  called  Patience  we 
must  first  of  all  be  quiet,  and  then  we  must  cherish 
some  hope,  and  then  we  must  go  on  with  our  work, 
either  for  the  change  of  circumstance  or  for  the  over- 
coming of  circumstance. 

We  have  great  resources.  There  is  a  power  of 
endurance  in  human  nature  which  we  know  only  when 
it  is  tested.  I  have  read  that  nature  has  given  us 
much  more  than  the  capacity  for  ordinary  hearing. 
I  have  been  told  that  you  may  lose  half  your  power 
of  hearing,  and  be  practically  unconscious  of  your 
loss.  There  was  so  much  to  spare.  It  is  when  you 
have  lost  a  little  more  than  half  your  power  of  hear- 
ing that  you  begin  to  be  aware  of  your  deficiency. 
Whether  that  be  so  or  not,  no  man  knows  what  he 
can  bear  till  he  is  called  upon  to  bear  the  worst.  We 
were  born  to  suffer  as  well  as  to  work,  and  the  better 
we  work  the  better  we  shall  suffer. 

This  candle  called  Patience  will  often  go  out ;  but 
it  may  be  re-lighted,  and  at  last  it  will  shine  very 
cheerily.  Will  the  old  happiness  come  back?  You 
may  as  well  ask  whether  the  exuberant  delight  of 
childhood,  and  the  boundless  hope  of  youth  will  come 
back.  They  will  not  return.  But  something  may  come 
in  their  room  which  is  just  as  good.  A  man  need  not 
mourn  overmuch;  but  he  will  never  be  the  same 
again.  Many  faults  of  the  old  days  may  well  dis- 
appear, many  new  virtues  take  their  room.  Will  the 

8 


A  CANDLE   CALLED  PATIENCE 

wounds  ever  be  quite  healed?  They  may  be  healed, 
but  the  scar  will  remain;  and  the  sword-like  pain 
when  we  least  expect  it  will  again  traverse  the  heart. 
I  have  not  touched  upon  religion;  but  what  if  this 
life  is  our  Exile  and  Captivity,  and  Death  our 
Return? 


9 


CHAPTER  H 

"  NEVER    WEAR   A    BROWN    HAT    IN    FRIESLAND " 

AN  Englishman  who  travelled  in  North  Holland  some 
fifty  years  ago  brought  back  from  his  wanderings 
this  valuable  precept,  "  Never  wear  a  brown  hat  in 
Friesland." 

He  had  taken  for  his  journey  a  brown  felt  hat,  a 
hat  that  had  every  possible  recommendation  but  one. 
It  was  a  hat  with  no  headaches  in  it.  It  might  be 
bumped,  it  might  be  packed,  you  might  sit  on  it,  you 
might  sleep  in  it,  and  it  was  still  the  same,  kindly, 
comforting,  unobtrusive.  It  was  a  hat  indeed  that  a 
man  might  be  buried  in.  And  yet  it  was  not  a  hat  to 
be  worn  with  impunity  in  Friesland,  for  there  the 
natives  had  strange  tastes  in  headgear.  Women  wore 
on  their  heads  a  knitted  cap,  a  gilt  metal  cap,  a  lace 
cap,  and  a  straw  bonnet  surmounting  all.  The  men 
were  scarcely  less  wonderful  to  behold,  and  they  were 
not  only  proud  of  their  ways,  but  intolerant  of  the 
ways  of  others.  Wherever  this  traveller  went  a  jeer- 
ing mob  surrounded  him.  He  was  laughed  at  with  a 
most  disconcerting  and  noisy  sincerity.  It  was  with 
great  relief  that  he  escaped  with  his  brown  hat  from 
Friesland  into  England. 

There  is  an  obvious  moral  in  the  precept,  "  Never 
10 


"NEVER    WEAR    A    BROWN    HAT" 

wear  a  brown  hat  in  Friesland."  It  enforces  the 
great  value  of  tact  to  all  who  desire  to  get  peaceably, 
usefully,  and  happily  through  the  world.  Those  who 
are  without  tact  think  that  all  nations  can  be  dealt 
with  in  the  same  way,  and  all  individuals.  The  tact- 
ful man  is  the  man  who  knows  better.  John  Bull  is 
honestly  puzzled  to  understand  the  intense  hostility 
with  which  he  is  regarded  in  most  countries.  He 
means  well,  and  knows  that  he  means  well.  The  fact 
is  that  John  Bull  has  persisted,  through  all  his 
career,  in  wearing  a  brown  hat  in  Friesland.  The 
luxury  has  cost  him  many  millions — I  dare  not  say 
how  many. 

But  I  propose  to  deal  with  tact  in  the  treatment  of 
individuals.  We  begin  by  saying  that  tact  means 
touch.  It  is,  as  a  lexicographer  says,  fineness  of  dis- 
cernment as  to  action  and  conduct,  especially  a  fine 
sense  of  how  to  avoid  giving  offence,  an  ability  to 
say  and  do  what  is  best  for  the  intended  end.  Two 
things  are  necessary  for  tact — a  kind  heart  and 
common  sense.  Perhaps  I  should  say  that  for  the 
very  finest  tact  we  need  both  qualities  in  the  super- 
lative degree.  We  need  love,  and  we  need  the  highest 
form  of  intellectual  discernment.  We  need  deliver- 
ance from  the  prison-house  of  self.  For  the  truest 
tact  there  must  be  the  widening  and  falling  away  of 
the  personal  horizon,  so  that  the  interests  of  others 
replace  one's  own. 

"  And  she  by  tact  of  love  was  well  aware 
That  Lancelot  knew  that  she  was  looking  at  him." 
11 


THE   KEY  OF   THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

It  is  love  that  brings  human  beings  into  spiritual 
alliance,  and  yet  love  by  itself  is  not  sufficient.  Mark 
Rutherford  describes  a  common  tragedy  in  his  unerr- 
ing way :  "  His  wife  was  an  honest,  good  little 
woman,  but  so  much  attached  to  him  and  so  depend- 
ent on  him  that  she  was  his  mere  echo.  She  had  no 
opinions  which  were  not  his,  and  whenever  he  said 
anything  which  went  beyond  the  ordinary  affairs  of 
the  house  she  listened  with  curious  effort,  and  gen- 
erally responded  by  a  weakened  repetition  of  M'Kay's 
own  observations.  He  perpetually,  therefore,  had 
before  him  an  enfeebled  reflection  of  himself,  and  this 
irritated  him,  notwithstanding  his  love  for  her;  for 
who  could  help  loving  a  woman  who,  without  the  least 
hesitation,  would  have  opened  her  veins  at  his  com- 
mand, and  have  given  up  every  drop  of  blood  in  her 
body  for  him?  Over  and  over  again  I  have  heard 
him  offer  some  criticism  on  a  person  or  event,  and  the 
customary  chime  of  approval  would  ensue,  provoking 
him  to  such  a  degree  that  he  would  instantly  contra- 
dict himself  with  much  bitterness,  leaving  poor  Mrs. 
M'Kay  in  much  perplexity.  Such  a  shot  as  this  gen- 
erally reduced  her  to  timid  silence."  Lord  Chesterfield 
was  wont  to  say  that  those  who  really  desired  to  please 
were  almost  sure  to  please,  but  there  is  much  virtue 
in  the  "  almost."  When  we  say  that  a  man  is  "  well- 
meaning  "  we  usually  mean  that  he  is  tactless. 

For  tact,  we  need  the  power  of  cool  reflection,  the 
memory  of  individual  traits,  precision  of  judgment, 
and  practical  skill.  The  tactful  man  is  the  man  who 

12 


"NEVER   WEAR    A    BROWN    HAT' 

does  not  desire  to  show  his  own  cleverness,  who  does 
not  delight  in  his  own  finesse.  There  should  be  no 
trace  of  vanity  in  him,  and  he  ought  to  be  sympa- 
thetic where  sympathy  is  even  tolerated.  Have  you 
ever  seen  the  searching  looks  of  a  great  physician? 
He  fixes  his  eyes  of  calm  sympathy  and  regard  on 
his  patient ;  he  listens  with  that  look  of  helpful  atten- 
tion which  is  peculiar  to  the  faces  of  those  who  have 
known  what  suffering  is.  He  will  let  his  eyelids  fall 
and  lift  them  again  as  he  probes  once  more  for  the 
secret  which  he  must  read  for  himself.  Before  the 
interview  is  over,  he  has  found  it.  There  is  no  tact 
like  the  tact  needed  in  dealing  with  great  sufferers. 
Those  who  are  most  skilful  in  that  divine  art  become 
by  long  practice  able  to  read  clearly  the  wants  and 
the  weaknesses,  and  know  how  to  lay  their  fingers 
healingly  on  the  sore  places.  Often,  however,  in  this 
world  we  have  to  study  dangerous  creatures,  and 
master  their  natural  history.  The  late  Lord  Ampthill 
was  considered  by  good  judges  one  of  our  very  best 
diplomatists.  He  was  the  greatest  possible  contrast 
to  his  relative,  Lord  John  Russell,  one  of  the  least 
tactful  of  human  beings.  It  is  told  of  Lord  Ampthill 
that  during  his  misssion  to  Rome  he  possessed  a  great 
boa  constrictor,  the  habits  of  which  he  delighted  to> 
study.  The  creature  once  escaped  when  he  supposed 
it  to  be  asleep,  wound  itself  round  him,  and  began 
gradually  to  tighten  its  coils.  Lord  Ampthill  saved 
himself  by  remembering  that  there  was  a  bone  in  its 
throat  which  he  could  find  and  break.  He  very  coolly 

13 


THE  KEY   OF.  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

(discovered  it,  and  got  rid  of  Ms  dangerous  pet.  In 
the  same  way  he  studied  natures  more  or  less  unintelli- 
gible to  him,  not  to  compliment  himself  on  his  own 
acuteness,  but  to  fit  himself  for  his  duties.  He  was 
perfectly  simple;  he  avoided  the  snare  of  being  too 
wily,  too  strategic,  but  he  could  see  and  hear  and 
think,  and  he  watched  others  with  patient,  specula- 
tive eyes  that  asked  their  question  again  and  again, 
rejecting  imperfect  answers,  till  the  true  answer 
came.  This,  it  seems  to  me,  was  a  magnificent  exam- 
ple of  tact,  and  it  had  its  triumph,  though  Ampthill 
was  never  widely  known.  Vanity,  which  is  one  of  the 
great  solvents  of  reticence,  was  not  his.  He  had  the 
desire  for  knowledge  without  the  desire  to  communi- 
cate it.  He  used  it  as  the  opportunity  presented 
itself,  not  to  magnify  himself,  but  to  guide  him  in 
wise  action. 

This  was  the  tact  of  a  diplomatist,  but  in  every 
sphere  of  life,  in  the  home,  and  in  the  office,  and  in 
society  tact  is  priceless.  In  some  ways  perhaps  there 
is  an  improvement  in  our  manners.  You  do  not  meet 
many  of  the  disagreeable  people  described  in  the 
essays  of  our  ancestors.  Your  acquaintances  do  not 

begin  sentences  with,  "  What  a  fool  you  were  to " 

They  do  not  say,  "  This  will  blow  over,  as  other 
follies  of  yours  have  blown  over."  They  do  not 
single  you  out  of  a  company  where  you  are  sitting 
dull  and  dispirited,  and  ask  why  you  look  so  wretched. 
It  seldom  happens  that  even  the  silliest  people  tell  at 
table  a  succession  of  stories  about  Mr.  Somebody, 

14 


"NEVER   WEAR    A    BROWN    HAT" 

when  Mr.  Somebody's  daughter  is  opposite.  One 
lady  does  not  say  to  another  in  company,  "  Pardon 
me,  your  false  hair  is  coming  down."  Nor  do  we  bru- 
tally remind  the  old  of  their  frailty.  "  You  must  be 
very  tired ;  you  have  been  ageing  very  much  of  late." 
Neither  are  brusqueness  and  repartee  much  in  fash- 
ion. I  was  told  by  an  old  friend  of  Douglas  Jerrold 
that  a  sensitive  man,  on  being  introduced  to  him,  said, 
"  Now,  Mr.  Jerrold,  you  must  not  make  a  butt  of 
me."  "  Then  why  do  you  bring  your  hog's  head 
here  ?  "  was  the  immediate  reply.  Nowadays  if  any 
one  made  such  an  answer  he  would  be  promptly  and 
deservedly  kicked.  We  have  found  out  the  sham  of 
the  rough  diamond  and  the  rough  husk  business,  and 
it  is  highly  discredited.  As  has  been  said,  by  the 
time  one  has  broken  one's  teeth  on  a  rough  husk  the 
tenderness  of  the  kernel  has  become  illusory  or  value- 
less. Archbishop  Temple  was,  it  may  be  hoped,  the 
last  of  the  brusque.  Nevertheless,  tact  means  much 
more  than  the  abstinence  from  brutality.  People 
still  say  things  that  they  would  rather  not  have  said. 
"  I  like  your  book,"  said  a  lady  to  a  popular  novelist, 
"  and  Mr.  -  -  likes  it."  "  I  am  glad  he  likes  it," 
was  the  reply.  And  still  there  are  people  who  delight 
in  explanations.  There  are  some  things,  I  am  con- 
vinced, which  are  better  left  unexplained.  I  do  not 
wish  that  everything  should  be  made  clear  to  me.  I 
hope  many  sleeping  dogs  will  be  allowed  to  lie. 

The  true  tact  means  insight  and  kindness.     Those 
who  have  to  direct  others,  employers  and  teachers, 

15 


THE  KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

for  example,  know  very  well  that  to  get  the  best  from 
those  under  them  they  must  carefully  study  individ- 
ual characteristics.  There  are  many  who  never  do 
their  best  work  unless  a  strong  hand  is  upon  them. 
They  have  to  be  taught  obedience  to  rule.  When 
they  learn  that  they  are  happy  and  go  well.  Others, 
again,  answer  best  to  appeals  to  their  reason.  If 
they  understand  why  they  should  take  a  certain  way, 
they  will  take  it,  but  they  are  never  happy  in  the 
dark.  Others  again — and  these  are  the  finest  natures 
— will  do  anything  and  everything  for  love. 

One  of  the  best  examples  of  the  lower  form  of  tact 
was  that  of  Sidney  Godolphin,  who  plays  so  large  a 
part  in  Macaulay's  History.  I  know  that  historians 
do  not  judge  his  character  very  favourably,  though 
there  is  some  difference  of  opinion.  But  he  held  his 
position  as  few  have  held  it  through  the  stormiest 
times,  and  he  received  from  Charles  n.  a  very  fine 
compliment.  That  monarch  praised  him  as  a  man 
who  was  "  never  in  the  way  and  never  out  of  the  way." 
I  venture  to  think  that  Sir  Leslie  Stephen  under- 
values this  commendation.  Those  who  are  never  in 
the  way  and  never  out  of  the  way  are  not  easily 
found,  and  they  are  not  easily  parted  with.  Sidney 
Godolphin  was  born  in.  1645.  He  entered  Parlia- 
ment in  1668,  and  he  left  office  finally  in  1710,  dying 
in  1712.  When  his  relations  to  James,  to  Mary  of 
Modena,  to  William,  to  Marlborough  and  his  Duch- 
ess, and  to  Queen  Anne,  are  considered,  we  may  be 
sure  that  Godolphin,  whatever  his  weaknesses,  was  a 

16 


"NEVER   WEAR   A   BROWN    HAT" 

man  of  the  most  exquisite  tact.  He  must  have  been 
something  more  than  a  diplomatist.  He  must  have 
made  himself  agreeable  and  necessary  to  men  and 
women  of  the  most  varied  types.  But  the  true  tact, 
I  repeat,  is  the  tact  of  love,  the  tact  of  those  men  and 
women  who  are  always  doing  some  good,  relieving  the 
burdened,  and  holding  up  the  stumblers.  The  lives 
of  their  fellows  are  surer  in  their  brightness  and 
braver  in  their  shadows  because  such  hearts  have 
touched  them. 


17 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  KEY  OP  THE  BLUE  CLOSET 

IN  the  Mill  on  the  Floss,  Mrs.  Pullet  gloomily  reflects 
as  to  the  incapacity  of  her  husband  to  unravel  the 
mystery  of  her  keys  in  case  of  her  decease. 

"  *  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  to  do,  sister  Glegg, 
but  I  mean  to  give  him  (Tom)  a  tablecloth  of  all  my 
three  biggest  sizes  but  one,  besides  sheets.  I  don't 
say  what  more  I  shall  do ;  but  that  I  shall  do,  and  if 
I  should  die  to-morrow,  Mr.  Pullet,  you'll  bear  it  in 
mind — though  you'll  be  blundering  with  the  keys, 
and  never  remember  as  that  on  the  third  shelf  of  the 
left-hand  wardrobe,  behind  the  nightcaps  with  the 
broad  ties — not  the  narrow  frilled  uns — is  the  key  o' 
the  drawer  in  the  Blue  Room,  where  the  key  o'  the 
Blue  Closet  is.  You  '11  make  a  mistake,  and  I  shall 
never  be  worthy  to  know  it.  You  've  a  memory  for 
my  pills  and  draughts  wonderful,  I  '11  always  say  that 
of  you;  but  you're  lost  among  the  keys.'  This 
gloomy  prospect  of  the  confusion  that  would  ensue 
on  her  decease  was  very  affecting  to  Mrs.  Pullet." 

Why  do  we  miss  so  much  those  who  have  gone 
beyond  our  reach  in  this  world?  Is  it  not  because 
they  have  taken  with  them  a  key?  It  may  be  the  key 
to  vast  and  glorious  and  richly  stored  halls  and 

18 


chambers  full  of  music  and  beauty  and  inspiration. 
Or  it  may  be  the  key  to  a  little  bare  room — no  more 
than  a  closet — but  the  warmth  of  love  was  in  it,  and 
it  was  good  to  be  there.  The  doors  remain,  and  we 
are  always  coming  up  against  them,  always  wishing 
to  pass  through  them.  But  these  doors  are  fast. 
When  Coleridge  died,  Charles  Lamb  could  not  get 
the  thought  of  him  out  of  his  mind.  He  never  fairly 
recovered.  His  mind  ran  on  the  theme  till  he  joined 
his  friend,  with  a  constant  turning  and  reference. 
"  He  interrupted  himself  and  his  friends,  almost 
every  incident,  with  some  play  of  affected  wonder  or 
astonishment  or  humorous  melancholy  on  the  words 
Coleridge  is  dead.  Nothing  could  divert  him  from 
that,  for  the  thought  of  it  never  left  him."  He  said 
himself :  "  His  great  and  dear  spirit  haunts  me 
he  was  my  fifty  years'  old  friend  without  a 
dissension.  Never  saw  I  his  likeness,  nor  probably 
the  world  can  see  again.  I  seem  to  love  the  house  he 
died  at  more  passionately  than  when  he  lived.  I  love 
the  faithful  Gilmans  more  than  while  they  exercised 
their  virtues  towards  him  living.  What  was  his  man- 
sion is  consecrated  to  me  a  chapel."  When  Byron 
died  Alfred  Tennyson,  who  was  a  boy  of  fourteen, 
carved  on  a  rock  the  words,  "  Byron  is  dead."  It 
was,  he  said  afterwards,  "  a  day  when  the  whole 
world  seemed  to  be  darkened  for  me."  When  Dryden 
died,  as  Macaulay  says,  his  secret  was  buried  in  his 
grave.  Many  felt  the  same  thing  about  Tennyson, 
especially  when  they  read  the  last  lines  beginning — 

19 


THE  KEY   OF   THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

"When  the  dumb  Hour,  clothed  in  black, 
Brings  the  Dreams  about  my  bed." 

They  are  as  simple  as  simple  can  be,  and  yet  no  one 
before  Tennyson  could  ever  have  written  them.  Nor 
is  it  likely  that  any  one  capable  of  the  same  achieve- 
ment will  ever  be  born  again.  There  were  many,  both 
of  those  who  loved  Mr.  Gladstone  and  those  who  did 
not,  who  felt  with  a  thrill  of  conviction  when  they 
heard  of  his  passing,  that  for  good  or  for  evil,  such 
an  assemblage  of  qualities  would  never  be  incarnated 
in  a  human  form  again. 

These  are  instances  which  every  one  can  readily 
add  to  from  his  own  experiences.  What  we  are  more 
apt  to  forget  unless  bereavement  touches  us  very 
closely,  is  that  the  small  in  this  world  are  as  unique 
as  the  great.  Nothing  is  more  untrue  than  the  saying 
that  most  people  are  as  much  alike  as  coins  of  the 
realm,  and  might  almost  have  been  struck  out  like 
coins  from  the  same  die.  It  seems  so  when  we  pass  a 
judgment  on  those  of  whom  we  know  little  or  nothing. 
Those  whom  we  really  know,  with  whom  we  have 
entered  into  intimacies  of  relation,  assure  us  of  their 
uniqueness.  The  mould  was  broken  after  the  first 
impression  had  been  cast.  Perhaps  it  is  the  unique- 
ness of  single  qualities,  more  than  the  uniqueness  of 
their  combination,  that  attracts  human  beings  one  to 
the  other.  When  the  end  comes  there  is  in  a  little 
circle  of  humble  people  the  same  feeling  as  is  stirred 
in  a  wider  world  when  a  great  man  falls  like  a  tower. 
A  door  is  closed,  the  key  is  gone  with  the  vanished 

20 


THE   KEY   OF   THE   BLUE    CLOSET 

hand.  This  may  mean  comparatively  little.  There 
was  one  with  whom  at  intervals  of  years  we  held  such 
talk  as  we  never  had  with  any  other.  There  was  one 
theme  on  which  we  could  speak,  and  no  two  besides. 
But  though  it  was  pleasant  to  enter  this  blue  closet 
and  feel  that  we  could  enter  it  when  we  pleased,  the 
experience  did  not  count  for  very  much  in  the  com- 
plexity of  life,  and  we  have  forgotten  it  now.  It  may 
mean  ever  so  much,  and  yet  life  may  be  possible  and 
even  sweet  in  spite  of  the  loss.  Other  keys  may  be 
found  opening  to  other  chambers. 

Mr.  Henry  James  speaks  with  his  usual  sugges- 
tiveness  about  Robert  Browning,  and  the  amazing 
contrast  between  the  comparatively  idyllic  Italian 
time  spent  with  his  wife,  and  the  rich  and  ample 
period,  full  of  felicities  and  prosperities,  which  fol- 
lowed it.  It  was  not  that  the  passion  and  the  romance 
of  that  wonderful  love  had  vanished.  One  might 
think  so,  sometimes,  in  seeing  the  later  Browning  in 
London  society,  genial,  accomplished,  and  to  all 
seeming  perfectly  content.  Mr.  James  says :  "  The 
poet  and  the  member  of  society  were,  in  a  word,  dis- 
sociated in  him  as  they  can  rarely  elsewhere  have 
been ;  so  that,  for  the  observer  impressed  with  this 
oddity,  the  image  I  began  by  using  quite  of  necessity 
completed  itself :  the  wall  that  built  out  the  idyll  (as 
we  call  it  for  convenience),  of  which  memory  and 
imagination  were  virtually  composed  for  him,  stood 
there  behind  him  solidly  enough,  but  subject  to  his 
privilege  of  living  almost  equally  on  both  sides  of  it. 

21 


It  contained  an  invisible  door  through  which,  work- 
ing the  lock  at  will,  he  could  softly  pass,  and  of 
which  he  kept  the  golden  key,  carrying  the  same 
about  with  him  even  in  the  pocket  of  his  dinner  waist- 
coat, yet  even  in  his  most  splendid  expansions  show- 
ing it,  happy  man,  to  none.  Such,  at  least,  was  the 
appearance  he  could  repeatedly  conjure  up  to  a  deep 
and  mystified  admirer."  This  may  not  be  the  exact 
truth,  but  it  shows  a  subtle  insight.  There  are, 
again,  instances  where  the  departing  take  all  the 
keys  with  them,  and  the  survivor  dies  indeed.  In 
the  lower  planes  of  life  this  is  true.  Most  unions, 
whether  for  business  or  for  Ipve,  leave  the  two  who 
unite  quite  distinct.  They  are  influenced  one  by  the 
other,  but  the  individuality  is  retained.  There  are 
cases,  however,  where  to  combine  is  to  form  a  new 
substance.  Many  years  ago  a  great  and  apparently 
prosperous  business  was  built  up  in  London.  The 
head  seemed  to  be  carrying  everything  before  him  in 
his  own  line.  After  a  certain  point  there  were  cracks 
here  and  there  in  the  great  structure,  and  in  the  end 
there  came  total  collapse.  One  man  closely  convers- 
ant with  the  facts  told  me  that  the  tide  turned  when 
the  confidential  clerk  of  the  head  partner  died.  His 
master  was  accustomed  to  consult  him  about  every- 
thing, and  he  knew  how  to  advise.  I  think  it  is  much 
more  likely  that  the  head  and  the  clerk  were  what 
they  were  only  because  of  their  union,  and  that  if 
either  had  been  taken  the  failure  would  have  come 
just  as  it  did.  There  have  been  journals  which  have 


THE  KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

gone  on  very  prosperously  for  a  time.  Two  men  have 
been  credited  with  the  success.  One  of  these  men 
leaves,  and  the  particular  flavour  of  the  paper  is 
gone,  and  its  prosperity  steadily  declines.  People 
say,  interpreting  roughly,  that  the  man  who  remains 
was  very  much  overrated,  and  that  the  brains  and  the 
ideas  were  with  the  other.  But  if  the  other  had 
remained  and  his  friend  had  gone,  he  would  have 
taken  the  life  out  of  the  journal  in  the  same  way. 
Neither  could  do  much  standing  alone,  but  when  they 
came  together  there  was  that  in  their  union  which 
achieved  triumph.  Happy  marriages  are  very  com- 
mon, but  the  perfect  marriage  of  union  is  very  rare. 
A  recent  writer  has  quoted  from  Gogol's  Dead  Souls 
the  story  of  a  married  couple  with  an  unpronounce- 
able name.  They  were  neither  young  nor  specially 
moral.  "  They  were  ordinary  sinners,  inefficient, 
careless,  selfish,  slothful.  Their  house  was  badly 
managed,  even  dirty,  and  they  were  not  too  rich,  and 
they  had  been  married  many  years.  Both  were 
rather  despicable,  but  they  had  a  way  of  breaking 
off  suddenly  in  the  midst  of  their  occupations  and 
diversions  and  exchanging  a  long,  long  kiss.  They 
did  not  know  why  they  did  this ;  something  myste- 
rious urged  them  to  do  it,  and  they  called  each  other 
by  pet  names,  and  in  short,"  says  Gogol,  "  they  were 
what  is  called  happy."  To  such  people  nothing 
matters  so  long  as  they  are  together,  neither  mis- 
fortunes nor  faults.  They  realise  permanently  the 
sufficiency  of  one  soul  to  another,  but  to  them  sever- 


THE  KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

ance  means  the  collapse  and  death  of  the  one  who 
goes  second. 

When  John  Keble's  wife  at  Bournemouth  heard  of 
her  husband's  death,  she  asked  them  to  keep  his  grave 
open  till  she  should  be  ready  to  join  him,  and  I  think 
she  only  lived  a  week.  The  author  of  Sandford  and 
Merton  strangely  accomplished  a  perfect  marriage. 
Thomas  Day  was  peculiar  to  the  last  degree,  and  his 
notions  about  matrimony  were  such  that  he  could 
hardly  expect  to  find  the  helpmeet  he  desired.  He 
specified  as  his  requirements  a  combination  of  the 
spirit  of  a  Roman  matron  with  the  simplicity  and 
physical  health  of  a  Highland  mountaineer,  and  the 
culture  of  a  London  blue-stocking.  He  demanded  in 
addition  that  the  lady  should  be  tall,  strong,  and 
healthy,  and  should  possess  white  and  large  arms. 
He  further  insisted  that  his  wife  should  join  him  in 
retiring  into  the  country,  in  abandoning  luxuries, 
pleasures,  and  society,  and  dividing  everything 
beyond  what  was  necessary  for  the  ordinary  comforts 
of  life  to  the  poor.  Strange  to  say,  he  found  a  lady 
to  agree  to  these  terms,  and  stranger  still,  Mrs.  Day 
remained  a  devoted  wife  to  the  day  of  her  husband's 
death,  and  when  he  died  was  inconsolable  for  his  loss. 
Though  a  bad  horseman  Day  insisted  on  riding  an 
unbroken  colt.  The  colt  shied  during  the  journey, 
and  Day  was  thrown  on  his  head,  receiving  such  inju- 
ries that  he  died  within  an  hour.  His  wife  never 
afterward  saw  the  sun.  "  She  lay  in  bed,  into  the 
curtain  of  which  no  light  was  admitted  during  the 


THE  KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

day ;  and  only  rose  to  stray  alone  through  her  garden 
when  night  gave  her  sorrows  congenial  gloom.  She 
survived  her  adored  husband  only  two  years,  and 
then  died  broken-hearted  for  his  loss."  In  one  of  Dr. 
Weir  Mitchell's  stories,  that  novelist,  who  is  even 
more  famous  as  a  physician  than  as  a  novelist, 
describes  with  wonderful  suggestiveness  a  union  of 
this  kind.  When  it  ends,  all  things  came  to  an  end 
for  this  world. 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  point  the  moral  other  than 
very  briefly.  There  is  a  key  left  to  most  of  us  that 
takes  us  into  the  chamber  of  memory,  and  that  key 
should  be  oftener  used. 

"Thou  a  postern-door  canst  ope 
To  humble  chambers  of  the  self-same  palace, 
Where  Memory  lodges  and  her  sister  Hope." 

As  for  the  great  dead,  they  have  left  us  the  treasure 
of  their  works  and  lives,  and  we  are  poor  indeed 
unless  we  enter  into  the  heritage  of  the  past.  Mr. 
Newbolt's  noble  lines  may  be  quoted: — 

"Drake  he's  in  his  hammock  an'  a  thousand  mile  away, 

(Capten,  art  tha  sleepin'  there  below?) 
Swung  atween  the  round  shot  in  Nombre  Dios  Bay, 

An'  dreamin'  arl  the  time  o'  Plymouth  Hoe. 
Yarnder  lumes  the  Island,  yarnder  lie  the  ships, 

Wi'  sailor  lads  a-dancin'  heel-an'-toe, 
An'  the  shore-lights  flashin'  an'  the  night-tide  dashin', 

He  sees  et  arl  so  plainly  as  he  saw  et  long  ago. 

"Drake,  he  was  a  Devon  man,  an'  rilled  the  Devon  seas, 

(Capten,  art  tha  sleepin'  there  below?) 
Rovin'  tho'  his  death  fell,  he  went  wi'  heart  at  ease, 
An'  dreamin'  arl  the  time  o'  Plymouth  Hoe. 

25 


THE  KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

'Take  my  drum  to  England,  hang  et  by  the  shore, 
Strike  et  when  your  powder's  runnin'  low: 

If  the  Dons  sight  Devon,  I'll  quit  the  port  o'  Heaven, 
An'  drum  them  up  the  Channel  as  we  drummed  them 
long  ago.' 

"Drake  he's  in  his  hammock  till  the  great  Armadas  come, 

(Capten,  art  tha  sleepin'  there  below?) 
Slung  atween  the  round  shot,  listenin'  for  the  drum, 

An'  dreamin'  arl  the  time  o'  Plymouth  Hoe. 
Call  him  on  the  deep  sea,  call  him  up  the  Sound, 

Call  him  when  ye  sail  to  meet  the  foe; 
Where  the  old  trade's  plyin'  an'  the  old  flag  flyin' 

They  shall  find  him  ware  an'  wakin'  as  they  found  him 
long  ago ! " 

To  those  who  have  lived  much  in  the  life  of  the 
affections  there  comes  a  time  when  the  memory  of  loss 
is  little  more  than  a  promise  of  more  perfect  gain. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  GOODMAN'S  CROFT 

THAT  excellent  chronicler,  Robert  Chambers,  tells  us 
that  about  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago  there 
still  lingered  in  Scotland  some  traces  of  an  ancient 
and  curious  superstition.  It  was  a  practice  to  keep 
a  certain  field  out  of  those  constituting  a  farm,  con- 
secrated to  "  the  Goodman,"  by  whom  was  designated 
the  potentate  of  the  lower  regions.  This  field  was 
called  the  Goodman's  Croft — a  term  evidently  used 
to  soothe  and  propitiate  an  evil  and  formidable 
power  which  men  felt  it  was  difficult  to  combat.  The 
Goodman's  Croft  might  be  the  best  piece  of  land  in 
the  district,  but  it  remained  untilled  and  unreaped. 
It  was  in  eternal  fallow,  and  covered  thick  with  weeds, 
a  blot  and  a  nuisance  among  the  useful  fields  around 
it.  Synods  fulminated  against  it;  clergymen  used 
particular  persuasives  to  get  the  practice  abol- 
ished, but  the  Goodman's  Croft  was  nevertheless 
maintained  in  many  places  till  the  time  of  the  Civil 
War. 

The  superstition  has  a  real  vindication  in  human 
nature,  and  illustrations  of  its  existence  lie  close  to 
hand,  and  are  of  daily  experience.  Thus  in  its  most 

27 


THE   KEY   OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

terrific  form  it  shows  itself  as  a  double  life.  The 
Bishop  of  London  has  declared  that  he  knew  men  who 
made  a  great  profession  and  were  assiduous  support- 
ers of  the  Church,  who  had  a  secret  evil  life  which 
they  managed  to  screen  from  the  world.  Nobody 
can  live  long  in  London  'and  know  much  of  what  is 
passing  without  being  painfully  aware  of  this.  I 
could  mention  two  or  three  men  whose  names  would 
be  recognised  by  every  reader,  who  turned  out  when 
they  died  to  have  followed  courses  of  action  which  for 
their  wickedness  and  for  their  daring  seemed  simply 
incredible.  These  men  were  famous  in  Church  and  in 
State;  they  were  respected  and  beloved  in  their  own 
legitimate  households ;  but  the  breath  was  hardly  out 
of  their  bodies  when  it  became  known  that  they  had 
been  wearing  a  mask.  I  will  not  dwell  on  this  painful 
fact. 

Let  us  turn  to  others  more  familiar  and  more 
endurable.  How  often  does  it  happen  that  a  man 
who  is  shrewd  and  judicious  in  his  own  pursuit 
strains  away  towards  another  in  which  he  is  practi- 
cally insane.  There  is  no  particular  harm  when  a 
man  who  is  an  expert  in  business  sets  up  privately  as 
a  poet.  He  can  perhaps  afford  the  time  to  write  and 
the  money  to  publish  his  verses.  One  of  the  very 
ablest  and  most  distinguished  business  men  I  have 
ever  known  imagined  that  he  had  a  great  turn  for 
theological  and  Biblical  criticism,  and  continued  to 
the  end  of  his  life  sending  me  articles  on  subjects  of 
which  he  did  not  understand  the  very  alphabet. 

28 


THE  GOODMAN'S  CROFT 

Often  the  Goodman's  Croft  is  more  costly.  A  man  is 
engaged  in  a  good  sound  business,  which  will  flourish 
if  he  attends  to  it.  He  is  not  satisfied,  however,  and 
starts  a  business  of  another  kind  with  the  result  that 
he  loses  the  old  and  fails  in  the  new.  The  tendency 
to  speculation  on  the  part  of  men  otherwise  prudent 
is  a  familiar  fact.  It  is  said  that  this  tendency  to 
establish  a  Goodman's  Croft  is  particularly  strong 
in  men  of  the  artistic  temperament.  A  great  novelist 
fancies  that  he  has  a  turn  for  writing  verse,  and 
goes  on  writing  them  till  his  reputation  disappears. 
The  legitimate  task  has  little  of  the  finer  force  of  his 
mind,  and  he  does  not  care  for  its  success.  A 
clever  lawyer  will  take  it  into  his  head  that  his  busi- 
ness is  to  refute  Darwin,  and  the  result  may  be 
foreseen. 

However,  I  propose  to  give  the  matter  another 
turn.  It  goes  without  saying,  that  we  have  all  our 
faults  and  limitations.  There  is  an  uncultivated  field 
in  every  one's  mind,  but  this  does  not  become  a  Good- 
man's Croft  until  we  boast  of  it.  When  we  do  that 
we  hand  it  over  to  the  devil  and  help  him  to  extend  it, 
for  the  area  of  life  that  is  deliberately  surrendered 
to  evil  tends  to  widen  and  widen.  Our  limitations 
may  never  be  got  rid  of.  We  may  be  compelled  to 
acquiesce  in  them  resignedly,  and  to  confess  them 
humbly.  Against  our  faults  we  must  wage  a  con- 
stant fight,  though  in  this  life  we  can  never  com- 
pletely triumph  over  them.  But  to  boast  of  the 
waste  space,  to  abandon  it  over  to  nettles,  hen- 

29 


THE  KEY  OF   THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

bane,  and  deadly  nightshade,  is  a  form  of  devil 
worship. 

How  often  do  we  hear  people  actually  boasting  of 
their  temper !  "  As  you  know  me  I  am  very  quiet, 
but  wait  till  my  temper  is  roused,  and  you  will  see 
the  roof  blown  off."  "  My  temper  was  up,  and  I  gave 
it  him  hot."  It  is  certain  that  temperless  people  are 
of  small  use  in  the  world,  but  temper  needs  to  be  kept 
under  perfect  control.  It  is  right  sometimes  to  be 
stern,  to  speak  resolutely  and  decisively,  to  rebuke 
folly,  and  carelessness,  and  wickedness.  But  even 
then  there  should  be  a  measure.  If  there  is  no  meas- 
ure the  result  is  devastation.  People  who  habitually 
lose  their  tempers  on  small  provocation  may  be  feared 
in  their  households  and  offices.  There  are  advan- 
tages, as  has  been  said,  in  being  a  cantankerous 
fool. 

But  such  people  are  never  loved.  They  never  get 
the  best  service  of  any  one.  The  indulgence  of  tem- 
per is  responsible  perhaps  for  more  heart-wreck  and 
home-wreck  than  almost  anything  else  in  the  world. 
This  is  a  Croft  that  most  surely  tends  to  enlarge. 
The  end  of  the  man  of  temper  is  generally  a  very 
lonely,  loveless,  and  remorseful  death. 

Closely  akin  to  this  is  the  practice  of  rudeness,  the 
use  of  strong  language  on  all  occasion.  That  admir- 
able observer  Dickens  has  given  us  many  examples. 
There  was  Cholloy. 

"  Our  fellow-countryman  is  a  model  of  a  man,  quite  fresh 
from  Nature's  mould,"  said  Pogram,  with  enthusiasm.  "  He 

30 


THE  GOODMAN'S   CROFT 

is  a  true-born  child  of  this  free  hemisphere — verdant  as  the 
mountains  of  our  country;  bright  and  flowing  as  our  mineral 
Licks;  unspiled  by  withering  conventionalities  as  air  our  broad 
and  boundless  Perearers!  Rough  he  may  be:  so  air  our  Barrs. 
Wild  he  may  be;  so  air  our  Buffaloes.  But  he  is  a  child  of 
Natur',  and  a  child  of  Freedom;  and  his  boastful  answer  to 
the  Despot  and  the  Tyrant  is,  that  his  bright  home  is  in  the 
Settin'  Sun." 

J.  B.  in  Dombey  and  Son  is  another. 

*'  But  when  my  friend  Dombey,  sir,"  added  the  major,  "  talks 
to  you  of  Major  Bagstock,  I  must  crave  leave  to  set  him  and 
you  right.  He  means  plain  Joe,  sir — Joey  B. — Josh  Bag- 
stock — Joseph — rough  and  tumble.  Old  J.,  sir.  At  your 
service." 

Mr.  Carker's  excessively  friendly  inclinations  towards  the 
major,  and  Mr.  Carker's  admiration  of  his  roughness,  tough- 
ness, and  plainness,  gleamed  out  of  every  tooth  in  Mr.  Carker's 
head. 

People  of  this  type  are  perhaps  not  quite  so  numer- 
ous as  they  once  were,  but  there  are  too  many.  "  I 
never  speak  sponges,"  "  I  always  say  what  I  think," 
"  I  am  a  blunt,  plain  fellow  " — this  kind  of  thing 
almost  invariably  means  that  the  speaker  is  a  rude, 
unfeeling,  overbearing  boor.  He  has  escaped  in  some 
way  the  ordinary  discipline,  and  has  actually  become 
proud  of  his  own  insolence.  There  are  few  traits 
more  objectionable.  In  our  complex  modern  life  tact 
and  courtesy  have  become  supreme  virtues.  They 
alleviate  the  troubles  of  existence  to  an  incredible 
extent.  They  further  the  true  ends  of  life  more  than 
can  easily  be  believed.  As  for  strong  language,  there 

31 


THE   KEY   OF  THE   BLUE    CLOSET 

is  a  place  for  it,  but  for  rude  language,  for  idle,  dis- 
proportionate vehemence,  for  furious  epithets  used 
at  random,  there  is  no  place  at  all.  If  there  has  to  be 
a  choice  between  the  two  it  is  infinitely  better  to  be 
dull  than  to  be  exaggerated.  A  scrupulous  sense  of 
justice  and  the  faintest  touch  of  kindness  would 
make  much  that  passes  for  plain  speaking  quite 
impossible.  I  cannot  help  thinking,  however,  that  on 
this  side  there  is  an  improvement.  The  slasher  used 
to  occupy  quite  a  recognised  place  in  journalism, 
but  he  has  fallen  on  evil  days. 

Another  way  of  assigning  a  Croft  to  the  Goodman 
is  to  excuse  the  neglect  of  one  department  of  duty  by 
attention  to  another.  There  is  no  function  in  life 
that  has  not  various  sides.  In  whatever  occupation 
you  are  your  work  is  more  or  less  diversified.  It  is 
impossible  to  be  equally  successful  in  all  the  depart- 
ments of  one's  work,  but  an  honest  effort  should  be 
made. 

Reading  over  the  chronicles  of  the  South  African 
war,  one  can  see  that  the  source  of  most  failures 
was  here.  One  General,  for  example,  had  cour- 
age, but  he  had  no  tactics.  Another  was  an  excellent 
disciplinarian,  but  he  did  not  attend  to  scouting. 
Another  managed  to  feed  his  men,  but  he  could  not 
lead  them.  I  once  heard  a  minister  say :  "  I  detest 
visiting,  and  do  not  attempt  it;  the  pulpit  is  my 
throne."  He  was  in  no  way  distinguished  as  a 
preacher.  Very  probably  he  was  better  adapted  for 
preaching  than  for  visiting,  but  it  was  his  business 

32 


THE   GOODMAN'S   CROFT 

to  do  the  best  he  could  in  both  departments.  He  was 
a  lost  man  when  he  actually  bragged  of  his  deficiency. 
He  had  assigned  his  Croft.  That  accomplished 
scholar,  the  late  Roundell  Palmer,  was  plucked  at  the 
University  in  his  entrance  examination.  He  had  not 
paid  attention  to  mathematics,  and  was  floored  by  a 
proposition  in  Euclid.  Characteristically  he  resolved 
to  go  in  for  honours  in  mathematics,  and  his  brilliant 
University  career  prepared  the  way  for  his  forensic 
triumphs. 

I  have  never  heard  in  my  life  any  one  boast  of 
being  a  miser,  and  perhaps  there  are  not  many  misers 
in  these  days,  though  meanness  is  still  quite  common. 
But  men  will  boast  about  being  good-hearted,  free 
with  their  money,  extravagant.  They  will  tell  you 
that  they  never  could  save. — "  I  could  never  be  both- 
ered with  accounts."  They  do  not  know  what  their 
income  is  or  what  their  expenditure  is.  Such  people 
are  often  very  popular  for  their  day ;  they  are  lavish 
in  their  hospitality,  and  they  get  the  credit  of  being 
kind-hearted,  though  I  doubt  whether  they  are.  How 
many  men  who  are  throwing  away  money  which  does 
not  belong  to  them  in  the  fashionable  restaurants  of 
London  do  anything  for  the  poor?  When  they 
become  bankrupt,  those  who  suffer  are  hard-working, 
honest  tradesmen,  who  as  a  rule  earn  their  money 
with  difficulty.  It  is  they  who  pay  for  these  ban- 
quets. One  of  the  cruellest  things  in  the  world  is 
to  see  industrious,  conscientious,  faithful  workers 
ruined  by  these  scoundrels  who  have  passed  for  good- 

33 


THE  KEY  OF   THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

hearted,  and  who  have  boasted  of  their  inability  to 
add  up  figures. 

There  are  many  who  are  heavily  handicapped  all 
their  days  by  physical  weakness  or  by  positive  ill- 
health,  and  they  need  to  have  a  care  in  this  connec- 
tion. "  When  I  last  saw  you,"  said  Emerson  in  his 
incisive  way  to  a  man,  "  you  were  bragging  of  your 
ill-health."  There  are  many  who  do  the  like.  Dick- 
ens has  given  us  the  classical  example  in  Mrs. 
Wititterly,  who  had  an  air  of  sweet  insipidity,  and  a 
face  of  engaging  paleness.  There  was  a  faded  look 
about  her,  and  about  the  furniture,  and  about  the 
house.  "  Your  soul  is  much  too  large  for  your  body," 
said  Mr.  Wititterly.  "  Your  intellect  wears  you  out ; 
all  the  medical  men  say  so — you  know  that  there  is 
not  a  physician  who  is  not  proud  of  being  called  in 
to  you.  What  is  their  unanimous  declaration  ?  '  My 
dear  doctor,'  said  I  to  Sir  Tumley  Sniffim  in  this  very 
room,  the  very  last  time  he  came — *  My  dear  doctor, 
what  is  my  wife's  complaint?  Tell  me  all,  I  can  bear 
it.  Is  it  nerves  ?  '  *  My  dear  fellow,'  he  said,  *  be 
proud  of  that  woman — make  much  of  her;  she  is  an 
ornament  to  the  fashionable  world  and  to  you.  Her 
complaint  is  soul.  It  swells,  expands,  dilates — the 
blood  fires,  the  pulse  quickens,  the  excitement  in- 
creases— whew ! ' "  Mrs.  Wititterly  proved  to  Kate 
Nickleby  a  very  vulgar  tyrant.  The  less  sickly 
people  say  about  their  health  the  better.  Hazlitt, 
who  was  not  a  cruel  man  by  nature,  said  he  detested 
sick  people  so  much  that  he  wished  he  could  kill  them. 

34 


THE  GOODMAN'S   CROFT 

I  have  no  doubt  that  he  was  referring  to  those  who 
bragged  about  their  sickness.  It  is  almost  worse  to 
make  ill-health  an  excuse  for  neglected  duty.  A  man 
should  undertake  no  more  than  he  can  do.  Bad 
health  is  a  capital  excuse  for  a  dispensation  from 
laborious  pleasures.  The  invalid  must  stay  at  home 
and  learn  if  possible  to  enjoy  the  quietude.  It  is  also 
an  excellent  reason  for  declining  outside  engage- 
ments. But  when  it  is  flaunted  in  one's  face  as  a 
reason  for  this  transgression  and  that,  it  becomes  so 
odious  that  one  enters  into  a  deep  fellowship  with 
Hazlitt.  Chronic  ill-health  is  undoubtedly  the  Good- 
man's Croft  of  many  people.  It  is  excuse  for  every 
kind  of  lapse,  and  a  more  irritating  excuse  it  would 
be  very  hard  to  find. 

"  I  never  read  anything,"  said  a  clergyman  the 
other  day ;  "  I  have  no  time  for  books."  Said  another 
man :  "  I  could  never  read  Scott,  I  was  never  able  to 
get  beyond  the  first  chapter  of  any  of  his  books." 
Well,  I  can  conceive  these  statements  being  made 
humbly,  honestly,  and  inoffensively.  It  is  quite  true 
that  there  are  worthy  people  who  can  see  nothing  in 
Scott.  They  are  much  to  be  pitied,  and  they  ought 
to  pity  themselves,  as  their  failure  to  appreciate 
Scott  means  a  strange  mental  incapacity.  They 
would  act  wisely  in  saying  little  about  it.  There  are 
very  good  excuses  at  certain  periods  of  life  for  not 
reading  books.  I  have  just  been  reading  Madame 
Roland's  letters  to  her  husband,  written  in  the  first 
months  of  her  marriage  from  Amiens.  She  was  in 


THE   KEY   OF   THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

the  full  tide  of  a  young  wife's  happiness,  and  the 
epistles  are  delightful,  full  of  details  about  her 
housekeeping  and  her  marketing.  She  was  quite 
unable  to  conceive  how  her  husband  could  care  for 
such  things  as  politics  and  the  American  war !  When 
one  thinks  of  the  part  she  played  in  the  suc- 
ceeding years  all  this  reads  very  strangely.  But 
it  records  what  was  perhaps  the  most  delightful 
and  joyous  period  of  her  tragical,  passionate  his- 
tory. 

But  what  would  Madame  Roland  have  been  if  she 
had  never  read  at  all?  What  is  the  use  of  any 
preacher  who  never  reads?  He  may  go  on  for  a 
time  on  the  stores  he  has  accumulated  or  with  a  fresh 
experience,  but  in  the  end  he  must  store  his  mind  or 
starve.  What  companionship  or  comradeship  could 
there  be  in  the  woman  who  never  opens  a  book  ?  There 
is  another  familiar  phrase :  "  I  am  not  a  scholar, 

but "  This  usually  means  that  some  grossly 

illiterate  person  is  dogmatically  settling  a  question 
which  can  be  judged  only  by  the  educated. 

The  last  example  I  shall  give  is  very  familiar. 
Who  has  not  heard  the  expression,  "  I  do  not  pretend 
to  be  a  saint "  ?  It  is  usually  an  ominous  phrase.  If 
a  man  pretends  to  be  a  saint  he  is  as  a  rule  an  odious 
hypocrite.  To  profess  the  lack  of  sainthood  and  to 
deplore  it  may  be  legitimate  enough,  but  to  say  in  a 
boast,  "  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  a  saint,"  generally 
means  that  a  man  is  allowing  himself  liberty  to  do 

36 


THE  GOODMAN'S   CROFT 

wrong,  and  that  is  to  hand  over  the  Croft  to  the 
Goodman. 

To  sum  up,  if  you  watch  for  the  characteristic  you 
must  often  claim  for  yourself,  you  will  generally  dis- 
cover your  chief  point  of  danger. 


CHAPTER  V 

DR.    ROBERT    A.    NEIL 

I  HAVE  seldom  had  a  greater  shock  than  I  experi- 
enced on  opening  the  Times  of  Thursday,  June  20th, 
1901.  It  contained  the  announcement  of  the  un- 
expected and  almost  sudden  death  of  Dr.  Robert  A. 
Neil,  Fellow  and  Senior  Tutor  of  Pembroke  College, 
Cambridge.  Dr.  Neil  was  the  most  intimate  friend 
and  companion  of  my  college  days.  If  ever  a  man 
seemed  to  be  marked  out  for  a  long  life  it  was  he.  I 
do  not  remember  his  ever  having  a  day's  illness,  but 
he  caught  a  chill,  peritonitis  supervened,  and  in  a 
very  short  time  his  useful  and  honoured  life  was  pre- 
maturely ended.  So  we  are  from  time  to  time  made 
to  realise  that  the  ground  beneath  us  which  seems  so 
solid  and  substantial  is  as  unstable  as  any  gossamer. 
Dr.  Neil  was  unique  in  his  way,  even  from  the  first. 
His  father,  the  Rev.  Robert  Neil,  parish  minister  of 
Glengairn,  near  Ballater,  and  my  father  were  at  col- 
lege and  long  after  like  very  brothers,  and  there  is 
still  in  existence  much  of  their  voluminous  corre- 
spondence. They  differed  vehemently  on  the  ques- 
tion which  divided  the  Scottish  Church  at  the  Dis- 
ruption; but  though  their  intimacy  ended,  their 
friendship  was  maintained  to  the  last,  and  so  when  I 
met  young  Robert  Neil  at  the  Grammar  School  of 

38 


DR.   ROBERT  A.   NEIL 

Aberdeen,  we  were  prepared  to  associate,  and  we  did 
so  with  a  vengeance.  He  and  I  were,  if  I  am  not 
mistaken,  the  two  youngest  students  in  the  class  when 
he  entered  the  University.  He  had  not  completed 
his  fourteenth  year;  at  any  rate,  if  he  had,  he  had 
only  just  completed  it.  He  came  to  the  Grammar 
School  six  months  before,  after  being  trained  by  his 
father  at  home.  He  was  not  at  that  time  strong  in 
Greek,  nor  particularly  strong  in  Latin.  We  were 
beside  each  other  on  the  Bursary  list,  he  one  step 
higher  than  I;  but  no  sooner  had  he  entered 
the  Greek  class,  under  Professor  Geddes,  than  his 
extraordinary  and  special  gift  manifested  itself. 
His  verbal  memory  was  like  nothing  I  have  ever  seen 
in  this  world.  He  was  a  born  linguist.  He  would 
take  Liddell  and  Scott's  dictionary,  and  with  his  feet 
on  the  fender  read  over  a  page,  and  then  hand  over 
the  book  to  me.  I  would  find  that  he  could  give  prac- 
tically the  English  word  for  every  Greek  word  just 
by  means  of  the  one  reading.  The  teaching  of 
Geddes,  who  was  a  scholar  of  the  old  type  with  the 
scholar's  passion,  particularly  stimulated  him,  and 
from  his  first  hour  in  the  class  he  was  deeply  inter- 
ested. The  deficiencies  of  his  previous  teaching 
counted  for  nothing  with  a  man  so  gifted.  I  doubt 
whether  his  rapid  and  wonderful  progress  was  known 
to  the  class  generally,  but  every  one  knew  it  at  the 
end  of  the  session.  Never  shall  I  forget  seeing  him 
called  up  to  receive  the  first  prize  in  the  Greek  class. 
He  looked  such  a  child,  with  the  shy,  wistful,  inno- 

39 


THE   KEY   OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

cent  look  of  the  child,  when  he  went  up  amid  the 
enthusiastic  cheers  of  his  fellow-students  to  receive 
it,  and  I  need  not  say  that  it  was  presented  very 
graciously.  From  that  time  onward  his  position  was 
secured,  though  one  very  able  student,  happily  still 
with  us,  disputed  it  even  in  classics.  Wherever  the 
gift  of  a  verbal  memory  came  in  he  was  supreme.  In 
the  Natural  History  class  he  took  nearly  the  highest 
place;  not  that  he  was  particularly  interested  in 
Natural  History,  but  because  the  long  classifications 
which  others  toiled  and  sweated  over  fixed  themselves 
in  his  mind  at  once.  He  was  able  to  write  them  out 
on  paper  after  giving  them  the  attention  of  five 
minutes. 

I  know  that  many  people  have  a  poor  opinion  of 
the  linguistic  faculty.  Charles  Lever,  in  that  reper- 
tory of  wit  and  wisdom  which  he  wrote  under  the 
signature  of  Cornelius  O'Dowd,  speaks  with  wither- 
ing contempt  of  the  linguist,  and  of  the  man  who  can 
play  games.  He  asks  whether  a  great  linguist  has 
ever  shown  any  powers  of  mind,  whether  an  expert  in 
chess  has  made  his  mark  in  anything  else,  and  re- 
serves his  sharpest  stings  for  the  man  who  is  an 
accomplished  pianist.  He  makes  a  reservation  in 
favour  of  the  skilful  whist  player.  No  doubt  Lever 
had  a  good  deal  to  say  for  his  case,  but  Neil  was  a 
great  linguist,  and  something  more.  From  the  very 
first  his  mind  worked  incessantly  on  the  questions  of 
the  day.  He  was  brought  up  in  the  atmosphere  of 
Conservatism,  and  he  was  always  a  Conservative  in 

40 


DR.   ROBERT  A.   NEIL 

politics.  Being  on  the  other  side  I  had  many  boyish 
debates  with  him.  He  was  discouraged  by  the  ten- 
dencies of  the  time,  but  comforted  himself  in  the 
prospect  of  a  Conservative  reaction.  This  he  never 
ceased  to  predict  most  confidently,  and  in  his  later 
years  he  saw  a  more  triumphant  fulfilment  of  his 
dreams  than  he  could  ever  have  anticipated.  Though 
very  ardent  in  the  advocacy  of  his  own  convictions, 
he  was  good-tempered  in  argument.  There  was  a 
touch  of  fire  in  him  as  boy  and  man ;  he  was  of  the 
true  Scottish  breed,  earnest,  persevering,  very  self- 
reliant,  warm-hearted  to  his  friends,  with  just  a  leaf 
of  the  thistle  in  his  bonnet. 

Notwithstanding  his  great  devotion  to  his  studies, 
he  was  keenly  interested  in  literature  and  journalism, 
and  was  a  constant  frequenter  of  the  news-room.  He 
used  to  say  that  he  would  not  mind  where  his  lot  in 
life  was  cast  if  there  was  a  good  news-room  within 
twenty  minutes'  walk  of  him.  But  his  great  charac- 
teristic was  his  unceasing  flow  of  humour.  He  was 
a  true  humourist,  able  to  put  everything  in  a  quaint 
light.  As  a  correspondent  I  do  not  think  I  ever  knew 
his  equal.  For  years  after  we  separated,  each  to  take 
up  his  own  work  in  life,  we  corresponded  continually, 
and  I  possess  somewhere  many  of  his  letters.  I  shall 
be  thought  guilty  of  extravagance  when  I  say  that 
these  letters  reminded  me  more  of  Charles  Lamb's 
letters  than  any  others  I  have  seen  either  in  manu- 
script or  in  print. 

When  he  triumphantly  took  his  degree  at  Aber- 
41 


THE  KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

ideen  University,  he  was  for  some  time  undecided 
about  his  future.  He  thought  of  being  a  doctor,  and 
attended  medical  classes  for  a  certain  period.  There, 
too,  his  memory  and  general  keenness  came  in,  and  he 
was  a  prize-winner  in  chemistry  at  least,  if  not  in 
other  subjects.  The  excellent  professor  of  chemistry 
at  that  time  had  a  rather  quaint  way  of  speaking. 
He  was  wont  to  pause  frequently  with  the  view  of 
giving  intensity  to  his  observations.  When  he  gave 
Neil  the  prize,  he  remarked,  "  And  I  must  say — Mr. 
Neil — that  you  RICHLY  DESERVE  IT."  Neil  was  also 
occupied  in  the  University  Library,  but  I  do  not 
think  he  was  ever  quite  happy  or  settled  in  the  study 
of  medicine.  We  met  very  often,  and  both  of  us  took 
part  in  the  University  Literary  Society.  He  found 
his  true  place  in  life  when  he  finally  decided  on  going 
up  to  Cambridge. 

It  was  recognised  in  Cambridge  from  the  begin- 
ning that  a  scholar  of  no  ordinary  type  had  come 
upon  the  scene.  After  many  preliminary  successes 
he  came  out  as  Second  Classic  and  Craven  Scholar. 
He  used  to  say  himself — I  do  not  know  with  what 
truth,  for  he  was  the  most  modest  of  men — that  there 
were  many  to  surpass  him  in  Greek  composition,  but 
that  he  could  hold  his  own  in  translation.  However 
that  may  be,  he  obtained  such  honours  as  were  within 
the  reach  of  a  Cambridge  Don.  He  became  Fellow 
and  Tutor  of  Pembroke  College,  and  the  beautiful 
rooms  which  in  the  minds  of  many  will  be  perma- 
nently associated  with  his  name  were  just  over  the 

42 


DR.   ROBERT  A.   NEIL 

archway.  There  he  settled  down  and  remained  to 
the  end  of  his  life.  The  rooms  were  exquisitely  fur- 
nished and  enriched  with  the  spoils  of  his  travel,  with 
Persian  rugs  and  carpets  of  high  value,  and  with 
many  precious  and  richly  bound  books.  The  space 
he  had  for  books  was  limited,  and  the  result  was  that 
his  store  was  more  and  more  carefully  sifted  each 
year.  I  found  among  them  up  to  the  last  visit 
I  paid  him  the  volume  I  gave  him  at  our  parting  in 
Aberdeen.  It  was  a  copy  of  Andrew  Lang's  Ballads 
and  Lyrics  of  Old  France,  the  best  book,  in  my 
humble  judgment,  Mr.  Lang  has  ever  written.  He 
presented  me  with  a  copy  of  Poems  and  Romances, 
by  George  Augustus  Simcox,  always  valued  by  me, 
and  now  more  valued  than  ever.  Others  who  know 
can  speak,  and  have  spoken,  of  the  great  position 
which  Neil  took  in  the  University  of  Cambridge,  a 
position  which  grew  more  and  more  with  every  pass- 
ing year.  He  was  one  of  those  men  who  are  born  for 
influence  and  do  not  need  to  seek  it.  Loyal  to  the 
heart's  core,  he  threw  himself  with  ardour  into  all  the 
concerns  of  the  University,  and  his  own  special  work 
was  done  as  well  as  he  knew  how  to  do  it.  He  fol- 
lowed with  eagerness  the  progress  of  classical  re- 
search on  the  Continent  and  in  America,  and  never 
allowed  himself  to  fall  behind.  His  pupils  had  the 
benefit  of  his  unsparing  devotion,  and  of  his  kind 
consideration,  for  he  was  essentially  kind  and  cour- 
teous. He  disliked  everything  in  the  nature  of  acri- 
mony, never,  so  far  as  I  know,  allowed  himself  to  be- 

43 


THE  KEY   OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

come  angry  in  controversy,  and  carefully  respected 
the  feelings  of  the  humblest.  He  was  a  staunch 
friend,  and  had  among  his  intimates  some  of  the  best 
men  in  Cambridge.  In  particular,  he  entered  into 
the  closest  relations  with  Robertson  Smith  when  that 
distinguished  scholar  went  to  Cambridge,  and  fre- 
quently travelled  with  him  in  Europe  and  the  East. 
There  is  no  harm  now  in  saying  that  the  article  on 
Robertson  Smith  which  appeared  at  the  time  of  his 
death  in  the  Bookman  was  written  by  Neil.  It  was 
a  careful  summary  of  the  main  facts  in  Robertson 
Smith's  career,  and  Neil  characteristically  dwelt  on 
the  fact  that  Robertson  Smith  was  essentially  moder- 
ate in  his  views.  They  came  together  in  politics 
at  the  time  of  the  Home  Rule  split,  when  Robertson 
Smith,  who  had  been  an  ardent  Liberal,  separated 
himself  from  the  main  body  of  his  party.  He  also 
mentioned  in  that  article  the  interesting  fact  that 
Robertson  Smith  thought  there  was  more  religion  in 
England  than  in  Scotland. 

This  leads  me  to  say  that  Neil's  powers  did  not 
appear  at  their  best  in  writing,  I  mean,  in  writing 
for  publication.  No  one  could  dash  off  a  more  scin- 
tillating letter,  but  when  he  took  his  pen  in  hand  to 
address  the  public  he  became  constrained  and  stiff. 
This  he  knew  well,  and  editors  found  him  most  difficult 
to  persuade.  In  early  years  he  occasionally  helped 
me  with  reviews  in  the  Aberdeen  Journal,  and  he  con- 
tributed now  and  then  to  the  Cambridge  Review, 
though  the  only  article  I  can  call  to  mind  was  one  on 

44 


DR.  ROBERT  A.   NEIL 

Omar  Khayyam.  He  was  a  subject  on  which  Neil 
was  eminently  qualified  to  write,  for  he  had  made 
himself  a  great  Sanskrit  scholar,  and  was  closely 
associated  with  E.  B.  Cowell,  the  real  instigator  of 
Fitz-Gerald's  translation.  But  somehow  the  paper 
missed  fire.  One  felt  that  the  writer  could  have  said 
a  great  deal,  but  something  hindered  him.  But  if 
he  did  not  write  himself  he  was  very  helpful  to  others 
who  did,  was  ready  to  read  proofs  and  make  valuable 
suggestions.  This,  of  course,  was  mainly  in  editions 
of  the  classics,  but  there  was  one  exception  at  least. 
He  was  very  proud  of  Thomas  Gray's  connection 
with  Pembroke  College,  and  assisted  Mr.  Gosse  in 
his  valuable  labours  on  that  poet.  The  books  he 
published  in  his  lifetime  are  both  in  the  department 
of  Sanskrit,  and  offer  nothing  except  to  specialists. 
But  for  many  years  of  his  life  he  was  engaged  on 
an  edition  of  Aristophanes.  He  did  not  live  to  pub- 
lish it.  He  was  very  fastidious;  he  would  wait  for 
the  next  German  edition ;  and  so  the  work  was  post- 
poned and  postponed.  A  man  who  was  at  once  so 
diligent  in  his  own  business  and  so  responsive  to  social 
claims  had  little  time  to  spare.  Since  his  death  his 
work  has  appeared,  and  has  been  warmly  received 
both  at  home  and  abroad. 

Dr.  Neil  continued  his  interest  in  literature  at  least 
for  many  years  after  he  left  Aberdeen,  and  at  one 
time  was  a  member  of  the  Savile  Club.  I  think,  how- 
ever, that  for  the  last  few  years  he  was  more  at  home 
with  his  Cambridge  friends  than  with  London  literary 

45 


THE  KEY  OF.  THE  BLUE   CLOSET 

men.  He  studied  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  with  some- 
thing of  the  care  and  thoroughness  which  he  would 
give  to  a  classic.  In  connection  with  this,  one  in- 
teresting incident  comes  back  to  my  memory.  One 
of  Stevenson's  books,  written  in  collaboration  with 
Lloyd  Osbourne,  had  just  been  published.  I  was  in 
Cambridge,  and  Neil  spoke  to  me  about  the  novel, 
and  said  that  he  was  confident  he  could  point  out 
Stevenson's  part  in  the  book.  Shortly  after  he  came 
to  see  me,  and  I  arranged  that  he  should  meet  the 
man  who  had  the  handling  of  the  story,  and  knew 
exactly  the  manner  in  which  it  had  been  composed. 
They  compared  notes,  and  it  turned  out  that  Neil 
was  wrong  in  nearly  every  point.  He  was  very  much 
impressed  by  this,  and  referred  to  it  again  and  again. 
Though  he  condemned  strongly  the  action  of  the 
Free  Church  in  removing  Robertson  Smith  from  his 
Chair,  he  was  not  certain  that  the  results  of  criticism 
would  stand.  In  connection  with  this  he  would  talk 
of  the  history  of  the  Homeric  controversy,  and  read 
out  impressions  of  certainty  as  to  the  analysis  of  the 
poems  which  subsequent  research  had  not  sustained. 
Once  on  a  visit  to  Oxford,  he  heard  two  famous 
Broad  Churchmen  preach.  One  of  them  was  Jowett. 
Neil's  comment  was  that  the  sermon  recognised  no 
higher  power  in  the  universe  than  the  Master  of 
Balliol.  The  other,  who  is  still  living,  preached  on 
the  Higher  Criticism.  "  How  thankful  we  should 
be,"  said  he,  "  that  when  we  get  rid  of  the  myth  of 
the  Resurrection  and  the  legends  of  miracle,  we  are 

46 


DR.  ROBERT  A.  NEIL 

able  to  grasp  more  firmly  than  ever  the  great  central 
verities  of  religion."  Neil  was  in  his  nature  averse 
to  violence  and  dogmatism,  and  ready  to  give  a  re- 
spectful hearing  to  the  other  side.  Yet  when  his 
mind  was  made  up,  I  don't  believe  that  he  changed 
it. 

Above  all,  he  was  full  of  old  loyalties  and  pieties. 
What  he  brought  with  him  from  the  Glengairn  manse, 
that  he  kept  to  the  end.  He  had  a  passionate  love 
for  the  Aberdeenshire  hills  and  heather,  and  spent 
part,  and  often  a  good  part,  of  every  year  among 
them.  He  has  been  laid  to  rest  in  the  churchyard 
at  Glengairn,  not  so  very  far  away  from  the  burying- 
place  of  his  friend  Robertson  Smith,  who,  though  in 
many  respects  different,  was  yet  like  him  in  that 
outstanding  characteristic  of  loyalty  to  the  early 
friends  and  days.  Neil  built  himself  a  pretty  house 
in  Ballater,  some  five  miles  from  Glengairn,  which  his 
mother  and  his  sisters  occupied  till  his  mother's  death. 
Of  his  devoted  affection  for  his  kindred  I  need  not 
speak.  The  Conservatism  which  he  learned  at  Glen- 
gairn he  maintained  through  evil  report  and  good, 
though  I  am  told  that  in  University  politics  he  was 
Liberal.  Long  ago,  the  first  time  I  visited  him  at 
Cambridge,  he  struck  me  very  much  by  his  gloomy 
view  of  the  prospects  of  this  country  under  a  Liberal 
Government.  He  said  that  with  him  it  was  not  so 
much  a  question  of  Liberalism  and  Conservatism,  but 
a  question  of  Empire  or  no  Empire.  He  dreaded  and 
disliked  the  Liberals  because  he  thought  that  they 

47 


THE  KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

had  lost  the  spirit  of  the  Elizabethan  days,  and  cared 
nothing  whether  the  Colonies  should  be  kept  or  not. 
He  was  afraid  that  if  Radical  views  prevailed  this 
country  would  become  another  Holland,  richer,  of 
course,  and  more  largely  populated,  but  still  com- 
paratively insignificant  in  its  influence  on  the  world. 
He  anticipated  with  great  dread  the  accession  of  Mr. 
Chamberlain  to  supreme  power,  for  he  regarded 
Mr.  Chamberlain  as  an  enemy  to  the  Empire.  This 
was,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  the  first  time  I  had  ever 
seriously  thought  of  Imperialism,  and  it  is  strange  to 
remember  what  he  said  in  the  light  of  what  has  passed 
since.  In  religion  he  used  to  glory  in  being  called 
a  Moderate.  I  do  not  know  what  he  would  have 
said  in  these  last  years,  but  I  think  it  would  have  been 
the  same.  His  was  essentially  the  view  of  the  old 
Moderates  of  Scotland,  the  view  too,  of  Shakespeare 
and  Scott.  In  its  baser  forms  it  is  contemptible 
enough,  but  in  its  highest  manifestations  it  has  a 
great  deal  to  say  for  it,  and  those  who  have  seen 
cause  deliberately  to  reject  it  in  every  form  must 
acknowledge  that  it  has  done  justice  to  elements  in 
Christianity  dangerously  ignored  by  the  majority 
of  the  older  evangelicals.  In  short,  he  was  a  man 
who  took  his  own  way  and  chose  his  own  circle,  but 
he  was  ever  accessible  and  kind  to  all  with  whom  he 
came  in  contact,  and  I  should  doubt  very  much 
whether  he  ever  made  an  enemy.  The  most  reckless 
slanderer  would  find  it  hard  to  say  anything  in  dis- 
paragement of  Robert  Neil.  From  end  to  end  of  his 

48 


DR.  ROBERT  A.  NEIL 

life  I  verily  believe  he  was  true  to  his  own  convictions 
and  his  own  ideal.  I  can  think  of  nothing  in  his 
career  to  be  regretted  or  palliated;  every  memory  is 
a  pleasant  memory.  The  thought  of  him  will  always 
be  part  of  my  treasure. 


49 


CHAPTER  VI 

"  NEVER    CHEW   YOUR    PILLS  " 

THIS,  I  believe,  is  a  proverb  of  Mr.  Spurgeon's,  and 
it  was  more  significant  a  generation  ago  than  it  is 
now,  when  chemists  have  surpassed  themselves  in 
making  medicines  palatable.  Still  it  means  a  great 
deal. 

It  is  not  directed  against  rumination.  "  Chewing 
the  cud  of  sweet  and  bitter  fancies  "  is  an  occupation 
sometimes  only  too  beguiling.  It  is  a  great  thing 
in  a  world  like  this  to  be  able  to  call  back  through 
life  something  of  the  delight  of  the  supremely  delight- 
ful moment.  Lady  Margaret  Bellenden,  in  Old 
Mortality,  lived  through  a  strange  and  shaken  time, 
but  the  fact  that  Charles  n.  once  breakfasted  at  her 
house  was  a  solace  through  all  and  to  the  end.  '*  I 
Remember  his  sacred  Majesty  King  Charles,  when  he 
took  his  disjune  at  Tillietudlem,  was  particular  in 

inquiring "     When    the    storm    was    over,    and 

Edith  married  Morton,  Lady  Margaret  consoled  her- 
self with  the  recollection  that  marrrage  went  by  des- 
tiny, "  as  was  observed  to  her,"  she  said,  "  by  his 
most  sacred  Majesty  Charles  n.,  of  happy  memory," 
when  she  showed  him  the  portrait  of  her  grandfather, 
Fergus,  third  Earl  of  Torwood,  the  handsomest  man 

50 


"NEVER  CHEW  YOUR  PILLS" 

of  his  time,  and  that  of  Countess  Jane,  his  second 
lady,  who  had  a  hump  back  and  only  one  eye. 
"  This  was  his  Majesty's  observation,"  she  said,  "  on 
one  remarkable  morning  when  he  deigned  to  take 

his  disjune "     All  know  how  a  pleasant  phrase 

in  a  letter  will  be  lived  upon  for  days.  I  heard  last 
night  of  a  writer  who  turns  a  very  bold  front  to  the 
world,  and  is  generally  supposed  to  be  self-sufficient. 
In  a  moment  of  confidence  he  showed  a  friend  of  mine 
a  review  which  he  carried  about  with  him  in  his 
pocketbook.  "  I  have  my  low  moments  like  other 
people,"  said  he,  "  though  I  do  not  show  them,  and 
when  I  have  this  gives  me  comfort."  Yes,  we  may 
recall  our  pleasures,  but  we  must  not  analyse  them. 
Mr.  W.  H.  Hudson  has  pointed  out  very  acutely 
that  Herbert  Spencer  lost  the  enjoyment  of  life 
through  the  excessive  development  of  the  critical 
faculty.  He  could  never  get  into  simple,  uncritical 
relation  with  things.  He  philosophised  over  pleas- 
ure, and  so  analysed  every  emotion  that  unsophisti- 
cated enjoyment  of  the  world  was  impossible.  The 
world  was  to  him  rather  a  world  of  abstract  principles 
than  of  flesh  and  blood,  and  the  result  was  that  his 
affections  were  never  called  out. 

When  we  are  speaking  of  pills,  the  reference  is  to 
the  mortifications,  the  disappointments,  and  the  irk- 
some tasks  of  life,  and  not  to  its  graver  and  grander 
sorrows.  To  be  able  to  make  this  distinction  marks 
a  noble  nature ;  to  be  able  to  apply  it  thoroughly  and 
consistently  is  the  highest  reach  of  wisdom.  Charles 

51 


Grandet  was  not  worthy  of  Eugenie,  but  the  Inci- 
dent that  first  gave  her  a  deep  and  serious  interest  in 
his  destiny  was  certainly  to  his  credit.  He  received 
the  news  that  his  father,  being  unable  to  meet  his 
engagements,  owing  four  million  francs  and  being 
able  to  pay  no  more  than  one  million,  had  escaped 
from  his  shame  by  suicide.  To  Charles  Grandet' s 
uncle  the  really  serious  misfortune  was  the  bank- 
ruptcy, and  the  subsequent  poverty  which  it  entailed 
upon  the  youth.  Charles,  however,  was  wiser.  He 
had  not  then  been  corrupted,  and  so  he  took  his  two 
misfortunes  very  differently.  He  lamented  his  father 
with  passionate  tears,  while  he  bore  the  ruin  with  the 
lightness  of  youth. 

Never  chew  your  pills,  that  is,  the  best  way  to 
deal  with  anything  disagreeable  is  to  have  it  ended 
as  soon  as  may  be,  and  then  leave  it.  The  chewing 
of  imaginary  pills  is  the  worst  error  of  all,  and  goes 
further  to  weaken  and  impoverish  life  than  almost 
any  other  habit.  In  St.  Teresa's  Book  of  the 
Foundations,  she  tells  us  how  she  went  to  found  her 
convent  at  Salamanca.  The  first  night  was  spent 
in  a  half-ruined  house,  out  of  which  some  students 
had  been  turned.  The  nun  who  was  with  the  saint 
was  very  nervous,  and  said  in  the  night,  "  I  am  think- 
ing, Mother  if  I  should  die  here,  what  you  would  do 
alone?  "  It  was  the  night  before  All  Souls',  and  the 
bells  of  the  University  city  were  ringing.  This 
sound  increased  the  fear  of  the  nun,  but  St.  Teresa 
boldly  answered,  "When  this  event  happens,  Sister, 

52 


"NEVER   CHEW   YOUR   PILLS" 

I  will  think  what  I  ought  to  do.  For  the  present, 
let  me  sleep." 

Never  chew  the  pill  of  a  disagreeable  duty.  The 
tasks  that  can  be  accomplished  in  five  minutes  are 
often  those  from  which  we  shrink  in  the  most  reluc- 
tant fear.  There  is  a  very  fateful  letter  to  be  writ- 
ten. How  is  it  to  be  phrased?  There  is  a  painful 
interview  to  be  faced,  an  interview  which  will  soon  be 
ended,  but  will  in  its  course  touch  the  sorest  places 
of  the  heart.  Since  the  thing  has  to  be  done,  it  is 
the  best  to  get  it  over.  By  postponement  the  imagi- 
nation magnifies  and  multiplies  the  suffering  until  it 
becomes  intolerable.  No  rehearsals  of  the  scene 
make  that  scene  any  easier  when  it  comes.  The 
rehearsals  simply  unnerve  the  weak  heart  that  has  to 
go  through  it  somehow.  So  in  the  choosing  and  ar- 
ranging of  our  daily  tasks  it  is  best  to  get  through 
the  hardest  first.  That  accomplished,  the  others  may 
be  enjoyed.  So  long  as  the  shadow  and  the  poison 
of  the  apprehended  effort  pass  into  the  rest  they, 
too,  carry  with  them  the  seal  of  pain. 

Never  chew  the  pill  of  a  laborious  and  uncongenial 
task.  Men  who  are  easy  in  circumstances  are  emi- 
nently wise  in  choosing  early  some  great  work  on 
which  to  expend  their  energies.  In  the  absence 
of  compulsion  the  task  may  never  be  fulfilled,  but 
even  so  it  is  pleasant  to  think  about  it,  and  pleas- 
ant to  talk  about  it.  There  are  those  who  win  a 
reputation  on  the  score  of  a  huge  addition  they 
were  to  make  some  day  to  the  literature  of  the 

53 


THE   KEY   OF   THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

world.  George  Ticknor  was  a  fortunate  American — 
fortunate  in  many  things  —  but  never  more 
fortunate  than  in  his  conception  and  execution  of 
his  history  of  Spanish  literature.  That  work  gave 
his  life  agreeableness  and  dignity.  It  brought 
him  into  the  best  company  of  the  world;  it  gave 
him  an  unchallenged  superiority  to  all  the  rest  of 
his  countrymen  in  one  important  field  of  knowl- 
edge. It  is  easy  to  see  how  it  sweetened  his  whole 
existence.  Even  Prescott,  in  the  face  of  his  severe 
physical  disabilities,  found  endless  solace  in  the 
preparation  of  his  histories.  But  when  the  task  is 
irksome,  and  when  it  has  to  be  accomplished  in  a 
given  time,  it  is  very  necessary  not  to  chew  it.  By 
this  I  mean  that  a  man  should  give  the  due  number 
of  hours  to  the  work  each  day,  and  then  make  the  best 
of  what  time  may  remain.  He  should  turn  his 
thoughts  and  energies  into  other  fields.  If  he  fails 
to  do  this,  if  he  eats,  drinks,  sleeps,  talks,  and  walks 
his  work,  that  work  will  not  only  become  intolerable 
to  himself,  but  will  in  all  probability  lack  freshness 
and  life,  and  reflect  only  too  plainly  the  weariness 
of  its  creator.  What  signs  of  weariness  there  are  in 
Sir  Walter  Scott's  Life  of  Napoleon!  Yet  he  toiled 
at  it  doggedly ;  he  did  his  best ;  he  turned  over  con- 
scientiously the  volumes  of  the  Moniteur,  which  are 
the  saddest  sights  in  Abbotsford,  "  the  great  French 
guns'  that  laid  the  prince  of  Scotsmen  low."  What 
a  change  from  the  free,  unhoused  conditions  in  which 
he  had  wrought  before!  Carlyle  made  life  terrible 

54 


"NEVER    CHEW   YOUR    PILLS" 

for  himself  and  other  people,  while  he  sojourned  in 
the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  Frederick.  He  insisted 
on  those  who  lived  with  him  descending  its  dark 
defiles,  and  living  there  with  him.  Still  Carlyle, 
though  he  chewed  his  pill,  did  swallow  it  at  last.  In 
one  of  his  lately  published  epistles  he  says  that  the 
stupider  he  happened  to  be,  the  more  necessary  he 
found  it  to  get  to  work  at  once.  So  never  chew  your 
pills  while  work  is  waiting,  lest  you  end  like  the  twins 
in  the  Golden  Butterfly,  who  were  always  putting  off 
trying  their  work  of  genius,  and  ended  by  doing 
nothing  at  all. 

Never  try  to  evade  the  acceptance  of  painful 
facts.  Once  you  see  them  to  be  facts  receive  them, 
and  by  that  I  mean  act  upon  them.  Recognise  that 
the  world  is  for  you  what  these  facts  make  it.  Even 
so  it  may  be  a  tolerable  world.  Yes,  even  if  you  have 
to  recognise  that  certain  misfortunes  are  irremedi- 
able— that  the  chance  once  lost  will  never  recur,  that 
the  disablement,  the  impoverishment  will  endure — 
then  do  not  fight  vainly,  but  see  how  a  reconciliation 
can  be  effected  which  will  once  more  put  you  in  tune 
with  circumstance.  After  certain  incidents  it  is 
necessary  that  life,  to  be  bearable,  should  be  reor- 
ganised, lived  on  another  scale  and  in  other  circum- 
stances. Many  people  die  in  protesting  against  this, 
and  many  wjio  do  not  die  are  shipwrecked. 

The  worst  unwisdom  is  the  unwisdom  of  those  who 
chew  their  pills  to  the  last  without  swallowing  them. 

55 


THE  KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

Sometimes,  and  perhaps  often,  a  very  little  thing  will 
separate  and  darken  two  lives ;  some  wretched  morti- 
fication may  be  brooded  over  till  it  turns  a  sweet 
nature  into  a  sour.  It  becomes  incorporate  with  life, 
and  in  sleepless,  dark  hours  every  little  circumstance 
is  recalled  with  torturing  minuteness.  Mortifica- 
tions are  the  inevitable  experience,  and  it  is  to  be 
observed  that  they  never  leave  a  nature  where  they 
found  it.  They  exalt  it  or  they  lower  it.  There  is  a 
way  of  training  memory  so  that  it  shall  cast  out 
much  at  least  of  what  is  little  and  what  is  unclean. 
Alas!  when  we  think  of  all  that  memory  loses,  so 
much  of  the  flower  of  thought  and  wit,  so  many 
words,  sweet,  solemn,  and  nobly  ordered  that  have 
passed  away,  while  they  were  still  ringing  in  our 
ears,  and  when  we  think  of  the  poor  dregs  it  holds 
against  our  will — we  may  well  bemoan  ourselves. 
But  the  true  tragedy  is  to  allow  hard  experiences  to 
root  themselves  in  our  souls,  and  put  forth  evil  fruit 
till  a  troublous  and,  in  a  sense,  degraded  course  is 
run. 

I  select  two  examples,  one  from  biography,  and 
the  other  from  fiction.  The  posthumous  memoirs  of 
Mark  Pattison,  Rector  of  Lincoln,  suggested  the 
proposal  that  a  new  form  of  death-duty,  on  a  pro- 
hibitive scale,  should  be  applied  to  check  the  produc- 
tion of  autobiographies.  It  was,  to  tell  the  truth,  a 
thoroughly  ill-tempered  book,  and  there  is  reason  to 
fear  that  it  reflected  the  writer,  and  that  in  spite 
of  his  high  qualities.  He  missed,  early  in  life  and 

56 


"NEVER   CHEW   YOUR   PILLS" 

for  several  years,  the  Rectorship  of  Lincoln,  a  posi- 
tion on  which  he  had  set  his  heart.  Though  the 
place  came  to  him  ultimately,  and  with  it  much 
honour,  the  grievance  remained,  and  became  bit- 
terer with  time.  Many  years  after  he  described  his 
chief  opponent  as  "  my  Satan."  The  successful 
candidate  was  "  a  ruffian  "  and  "  a  satyr."  One  of 
the  opposition  was  "  a  wretched  cretin."  The 
ferocity  that  marks  these  epithets  gave  a  morose 
aspect  to  his  whole  view  of  the  universe.  It  pre- 
vented happiness,  and  to  a  very  gre.at  extent  it 
prevented  achievement.  It  had  consequences  which 
I  must  not  fully  indicate. 

Equally  true  and  still  more  impressive  is  Balzac's 
picture  of  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf.  M.  de  Mortsauf 
was  born  to  be  rich  and  influential,  but  he  was  on  the 
Legitimist  side,  and  he  never  achieved  his  hopes. 
Still,  he  had  his  compensations.  He  recovered  some 
of  his  property,  and  made  a  very  fortunate  mar- 
riage. Nothing  availed,  however,  for  he  never 
ceased  thinking  of  what  might  have  been.  He  cher- 
ished a  gloomy  and  bitter  spirit  until  he  reduced 
the  life  of  his  wife  and  children  to  a  perpetual  exer- 
cise of  patience.  Once  he  took  a  walk  with  a  guest 
on  some  heights  in  the  neighbourhood  of  his  home, 
and  they  arrived  on  a  moor  where  nothing  could 
grow.  The  earth  was  stony,  dried  up,  without  any 
covering  of  fertile  soil ;  nevertheless  there  were  a  few 
oaks  and  bushes,  but  instead  of  grass  there  was  a 
carpet  of  wild  mosses  on  which  the  feet  slipped.  M. 

57 


THE  KEY  OF   THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

de  Mortsauf  struck  this  desolate  unproductive 
earth  with  his  cane,  and  turning  round  suddenly 
said  to  his  guest  with  horrible  emphasis,  "  Volla  ma 
vie!  " 

We  must  swallow  our  pills  and  make  the  best  of 
life,  make  the  best  of  it  even  at  those  periods  when 
things  look  dark  enough.  I  have  a  kindness  for  that 
Scotsman  who,  when  proposing  to  maintain  in  argu- 
ment the  superiority  of  Scotch  over  English  grapes, 
began,  "  I  maun  premeese  that  I  like  grapes  sour ! " 


58 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    ONE    FACT    MORE 

ONCE  upon  a  time  a  young  man  was  on  a  visit  to  a 
country  house.  He  had  left  the  University  after  a 
distinguished  career;  but  somehow  he  had  failed  to 
find  his  place  in  life,  and  was  anxiously  looking  for 
a  situation.  He  received  a  letter  from  London  urg- 
ing him  to  come  up  immediately  as  a  position  was 
vacant,  an  ideal  position  which  he  might  probably, 
obtain  by  personal  application.  The  young  man  did 
not  go.  He  wrote  that  he  would  come  up  in  two 
days.  It  turned  out  that  he  was  too  late,  and  he  lost 
his  chance.  Every  one  wondered  at  his  procrastina- 
tion, but  by  and  by  the  mystery  was  explained.  He 
had  fallen  in  love  with  a  girl,  and  intended  to  pro- 
pose to  her  on  the  day  when  he  should  have  gone  to 
London.  So  you  see  the  knowledge  of  one  fact  more 
explained  everything. 

I  have  long  been  puzzled  at  certain  episodes  in  the 
history  of  the  Lake  poets,  but  two  of  them  have  been 
fully  cleared.  It  is  very  difficult  to  understand  from 
the  printed  materials  the  estrangement  between  De 
Quincey  and  Wordsworth.  De  Quincey's  chapter  on 
Wordsworth  is  one  of  his  best  pieces,  but  there  is 
a  vein  of  malice  in  it  which  it  is  hard  to  comprehend. 
But  when  one  knows  the  circumstances  of  De  Quin- 

59 


THE  KEY   OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

cey's  marriage,  and  Wordsworth's  share  in  them,  he 
has  found  the  key  to  that  lock.  Similarly  the  rela- 
tions of  Southey  and  Wordsworth  to  Coleridge  are 
at  certain  points  perplexing,  but  there  is  an  explana- 
tion most  honourable  to  Southey  and  Wordsworth. 
Whether  these  elucidations  will  ever  be  published  I 
do  not  know.  Perhaps  it  is  best  to  leave  the  matters 
in  obscurity.  But  they  illustrate  my  contention  that 
we  are  often  hopelessly  lost  and  misguided  in  life  for 
want  of  the  one  fact  more. 

I  have  a  friend  who  is  hesitating  between  two  posi- 
tions that  have  been  offered  to  him.  All  who  know 
him  agree  that  in  one  of  these  he  is  likely  to  succeed, 
and  in  the  other  almost  certain  to  fail.  He  knows 
all  that  we  know,  but  he  hesitates.  Doubtless  there 
is  one  fact  more  known  to  him,  and  that  one 
fact  makes  all  the  difference.  Why  do  men  some- 
times refuse  to  move  when  everything  seems  to  call 
them  away?  Why  do  they  move  when  everything 
seems  to  say  that  they  should  remain  where 
they  are?  Is  it  mere  impulse?  In  some  cases  it 
may  be.  There  was  a  man  in  the  Bible  who  would 
not  remain  in  the  place  where  he  seemed  to  have 
everything.  When  he  was  asked  what  he  lacked,  he 
replied,  "  Nothing ;  howbeit  let  me  go  in  anywise." 
But  for  the  most  part  it  is  not  impulse  that  prompts 
the  flight.  It  is  the  one  fact  more. 

This  must  be  the  reason  why  in  so  many  cases 
advice  is  useless.  The  wisest  counsellor  can  only 
give  his  opinion  on  the  materials  laid  before  him.  A 

60 


THE   ONE   FACT   MORE 

single  fact  might  completely  change  his  view,  and 
that  fact  is  hidden  from  him.  Necessarily,  then,  he 
goes  wrong.  A  doctor  or  a  lawyer  will  tell  you 
when  you  go  to  them  that  you  must  keep  back  noth- 
ing. So  it  ought  to  be  in  all  affairs  of  counsel.  Un- 
solicited advice  is  generally  more  wide  of  the  mark 
even  than  the  advice  which  is  sought  for.  On  two 
occasions  in  my  life  I  went  against  my  own  judg- 
ment in  deference  to  older  and  wiser  men,  and  in 
both  cases  they  were  wrong.  I  knew  something  that 
they  did  not  know,  though  I  could  not  very  well  dis- 
close it.  What  seems  desirable  to  the  majority  may 
not  seem  desirable  to  the  individual,  and  if  his  tastes 
do  not  lie  in  that  way,  it  is  no  comfort  to  him  that 
the  majority  think  he  has  done  well,  and  even  covet 
his  place. 

I  need  hardly  say  that  it  is  the  one  fact  more  that 
makes  the  difficulty  of  judgment.  There  is  a  French 
saying,  "  To  know  all  is  to  forgive  all."  Taken  as 
it  stands,  the  aphorism  is  as  false  and  as  mischievous 
as  it  can  be.  It  involves  a  complete  denial  of  moral 
responsibility.  No  doubt  some  sins  are  not  less  but 
more  heinous  than  they  seem.  If  we  knew  the  cir- 
cumstances in  which  they  were  committed,  we  should 
condemn  the  transgressor  more  gravely  than  we  do. 
But  oftener  it  is  the  other  way,  and  when  the  one 
fact  more  leaps  to  light  we  almost  say  to  ourselves 
that  to  judge  any  one  we  ought  to  know  everything. 

"What's  done  we  partly  may  compute, 
But  know  not  what's  resisted." 

61 


THE  KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

That  is  one  part  of  it,  but  it  is  by  no  means  the 
whole.  The  knowledge  of  a  single  fact,  a  glance  of 
one  moment  might  completely  alter  our  whole  con- 
ception of  a  situation. 

About  three  weeks  before  Emily  Bronte's  death, 
and  only  a  short  time  before  Anne  Bronte's  health 
finally  failed,  their  sister  Charlotte  read  to  them  an 
article  on  their  books  from  the  North  American  Re~ 
'view.  "  What  a  bad  set  the  Bells  must  be,"  says 
Charlotte,  mocking  at  their  critic.  "  What  appall- 
ing books  they  write?  To-day,  as  Emily  appeared 
a  little  easier,  I  thought  the  Review  would  amuse 
her,  so  I  read  it  aloud  to  her  and  Anne.  As  I  sat 
between  them  at  our  quiet,  but  now  somewhat  melan- 
choly fireside,  I  studied  the  two  ferocious  authors. 
Ellis,  the  '  man  of  uncommon  talents,  but  dogged, 
brutal,  and  morose,'  sat  leaning  back  in  his  easy 
chair,  drawing  his  impeded  breath  as  he  best  could, 
and  looking,  alas !  piteously  pale  and  wasted ;  it  is  not 
his  wont  to  laugh,  but  he  smiled,  half  amused,  and 
half  in  scorn,  as  he  listened.  Acton  was  sewing;  no 
emotion  ever  stirs  him  to  loquacity;  so  he  only 
smiled  too,  dropping  at  the  same  time  a  single  word 
of  calm  amazement  to  hear  his  character  so  darkly 
portrayed.  I  wonder  what  the  reviewer  would  have 
thought  of  his  own  sagacity  could  he  have  beheld  the 
pair  as  I  did?  "  The  best  of  all  the  Bronte  critics, 
as  I  venture  to  think,  a  writer  in  the  Christian  Re- 
membrancer, made  a  noble  confession  after  Char- 
lotte Bronte's  death.  He  had  spoken  of  her  in  her 

62 


THE  ONE  FACT   MORE 

lifetime  as  "  an  alien,  it  might  seem,  from  society, 
and  amenable  to  none  of  its  laws."  The  cruel  words 
drew  forth  the  only  reply  Charlotte  Bronte  ever 
made  to  a  critic.  When  she  was  dead  and  the  re- 
viewer read  her  life,  he  confessed  that  he  had  re- 
ceived a  lesson.  "  Such  revelations  as  this  book 
gives  us  are  a  lesson  to  weigh  words.  We  should 
never  forget  that  the  unknown  author  has  a  known 
side,  that  he  is  not  an  abstraction.  .  .  .  We  believe 
that  all  the  critics  thought  they  had  a  tolerably 
tough  nature  to  deal  with,  that  there  was  no  need 
to  sugar  the  bittered  draught  in  this  instance,  and 
when  a  woman  assumed  a  masculine  tone,  wrote  as 
well  as,  or  better  than,  any  man  amongst  them,  and 
showed  herself  afraid  of  nothing,  that  gallantry 
and  patronising  tenderness  which  is  commonly  be- 
stowed upon  woman  was  changed  to  gall.  And  now 
the  administrators  of  the  portion  have  to  reflect 
on  the  private,  most  feminine  sorrows,  of  this 
Amazon;  of  a  patient  life  of  monotonous  duty;  of 
the  passionate  hold  the  purest  domestic  affections 
had  on  her  character;  and  which  amongst  them, 
if  he  could  rewrite  his  criticism,  would  not  now  and 
then  erase  an  epithet,  spare  a  sarcasm,  modify  a 
sweeping  condemnation?  We  own  it  wounds  our 
tenderest  feelings  to  know  her  sensitiveness  to  such 
attacks;  and  when  she  sheds  tears  over  the  Times 
critique — of  all  things  in  the  world  to  weep  over— 
our  heart  bleeds  indeed."  Are  considerations  like 
these  to  forbid  all  criticism?  No,  but  they  ought 


THE  KEY   OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

to  forbid  cruel  personalities.  They  ought  also  to 
make  us  tolerant  of  what  seems  eccentricity,  caprice, 
and  error.  If  we  knew  the  one  fact  more,  we  should 
see  that  there  is  very  little  caprice  indeed  in  this 
world.  People  have  a  reason  for  what  they  do, 
though  they  may  not  choose  to  tell  it,  and  we  may 
never  be  able  to  find  it  out. 

Once  I  discussed  with  a  friend  the  melancholy  of 
a  certain  author.  My  friend  argued  that  the  said 
author  had  no  right  to  be  melancholy.  He  had 
passed  his  years  of  struggle,  and  acquired  an  envi- 
able fame  while  he  was  yet  young.  I  knew  more 
about  the  history  of  the  author  than  my  friend  did, 
and  to  me  there  was  no  perplexity.  If  a  man  has 
fought  his  way  through  terrible  experiences,  and 
darkened  years,  success  and  sunshine  will  not  alter 
his  temperament.  He  will  never  get  rid  of  haunting 
memories  and  presaging  fears,  and  I  apply  my  doc- 
trine of  the  one  fact  more.  A  great  disappointment 
or  a  great  sorrow  may  permanently  disable  the 
heart.  We  cannot  explain  men. 

"  Why  is  it  you  shrink  from  all  life-work — you  with  such  a 

head 

Of  hope  and  will  of  sweet  composed  energy,  whose  shirk 
From  action  never  could  we  see  in  earlier  days  long  dead?" 

The  man  himself  knows,  but  he  will  never  tell  us, 
and  our  guesses  are  almost  certainly  wide  of  the 
mark.  I  knew  a  public  man,  who  though  he  lived 
many  years  after  the  death  of  a  cherished  daughter, 
never  really  recovered  himself.  Something  had  gone 

64 


THE   ONE   FACT   MORE 

for  ever — lift,  buoyancy,  inspiration,  hope.  Max 
Miiller  says  that  till  his  daughter  died  he  had  an 
endless  delight  in  life,  and  would  fain  have  gone  on 
working  for  two  hundred  years.  But  when  she  van- 
ished she  took  the  spring  with  her.  New  loves  may 
come,  but  they  do  not  make  the  old  loves  cold,  and 
they  do  not  end  the  weary,  silent  sufferings  of  the 
soul.  On  the  other  hand,  there  are  men  whose 
amazing  courage  and  brightness  under  the  heavy 
pressure  of  adverse  circumstances  is  a  standing 
miracle  to  their  friends.  Who  knows  from  what 
secret  springs  of  peace  and  strength  they  draw  their 
fortitude? 

The  doctrine  of  the  one  fact  more  applies  to  the 
future,  and  is  a  legitimate  ground  for  hope. 

I  have  found  that  many  who  have  given  up  their 
religious  belief  have  surrendered  it  under  the  weight 
of  hard  and  heavy  trials.  They  have  ceased  to  be- 
lieve in  prayer,  because  prayers  which  they  offered 
with  the  whole  urgency  of  their  spirits  were  denied. 
They  had  ceased  to  believe  in  Divine  love  because 
life  has  not  been  kind  to  them.  It  is  of  very  little 
use  to  discuss  the  evidence  of  Christianity  with  such 
sufferers.  You  cannot  answer  an  experience.  There 
must  be  a  new  experience,  or  at  least  another  inter- 
pretation of  the  old  experience,  before  faith  can  be 
recovered.  That  experience  may  be  near  at  hand. 
One  fact  more,  when  we  know  it,  unties  the  knot. 
One  of  our  greatest  writers  was  miserably  distressed 
by  the  death  of  his  son.  He  could  not  get  over  his 

65 


THE  KEY   OF   THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

grief.  One  day  his  physician  said  to  him  boldly, 
"  If  you  knew  what  I  know,  you  would  be  very  thank- 
ful that  he  died."  "  How  can  that  be?  "  "  If  he 
had  lived  he  would  certainly  have  become  hopelessly 
insane,  and  in  a  very  short  time."  But  that  experi- 
ence, that  argument,  may  come  only  with  the  passing 
of  the  years.  We  must  travel  our  weary  way  to 
the  interpreting  fact.  Why  have  I  taken  this  trou- 
blesome rough  road?  Is  it  never  to  end?  Well,  it 
sometimes  happens,  even  in  this  world,  that  there  is 
a  sudden  turn  in  the  road.  Or  to  change  the  figure, 
the  road  leads  us  to  a  goal  which  makes  up  for  all  its 
hardnesses.  The  path  of  dust  and  dead  leaves 
brings  us  to  the  fountain.  The  slow  and  painful 
ascent  ends  at  the  summit  of  the  hill,  and  as  we  look 
out  on  the  wide  landscape  we  do  not  grudge  one  diffi- 
cult step.  Some  may  read  these  lines  who  keep  won- 
dering all  the  time  why  they  ever  took  up  the  work 
they  are  doing,  why  they  ever  came  to  live  where 
they  are  living.  If  they  had  chosen  another  way, 
the  whole  world  would  have  been  different.  Let  such 
take  heart.  To-morrow  they  may  meet  the  friend 
whose  friendship  will  be  the  best  blessing  of  the 
years,  the  friend  whom  they  never  could  have  met 
on  any  other  path.  Some  are  faithfully  drudging 
in  poorly  requited  toil  with  hardly  a  hope  beyond  it. 
To-morrow  they  may  discover  that  keen  eyes  have 
been  watching  them,  and  silently  marking  their 
fidelity  and  patience.  They  may  be  suddenly  raised 
beyond  their  utmost  dreams.  It  is  well  to  cherish  no 

66 


THE   ONE   FACT   MORE 

illusions,  to  go  on  diligently  with  the  appointed  task, 
making  the  best  of  what  comes,  and  with  the  full 
resolution  not  to  flinch,  though  no  sudden  brightness 
fall  upon  the  life.  But  a  reasonable  hope  ought  to 
be  cherished.  There  is  no  period  of  life  at  which 
we  ought  to  say  that  there  are  no  more  glad  sur- 
prises for  us  in  the  future.  Life  is  hard  enough,  but 
not  so  hard  as  some  would  make  it,  and  its  rewards 
come  to  those  who  have  worked  for  them  more  often 
than  many  would  have  us  believe.  When  they  come 
then  the  one  fact  more  illumines  the  darkest  pass. 
We  say,  "  Rough  and  steep  though  the  path  may 
have  been,  it  was  the  right  path,  since  it  led  us  to 
this."  To  the  believer  the  one  fact  more  is — 
heaven. 


67 


CHAPTER    VIII 

"  B.  A.,  D.  J." 

IN  one  of  the  racy  prefaces  which  appear  in  Crock- 
ford's  Directory,  there  was  once  a  story  about  a 
gentleman  who  returned  himself  as  B.A.,  d.j.  of  a 
certain  University.  On  being  asked  for  an  explana- 
tion, he  wrote  back  that  by  d.j.  he  meant  de  jure, 
by  right.  "  By  the  letters  d.j.  I  meant  that  I  ought 
to  have  the  B.A.,  and  should  have  had  it  if  I  had 
been  treated  fairly,  but  I  demurred  to  or  at  least 
inquired  what  the  teacher  of  logic  meant  by  an  asser- 
tion he  made  at  one  of  his  lectures,  namely,  that 
'  sugar  and  melting  are  the  same  thing.'  Because  I 
did  not  see  the  truth  of  this  expression  at  once,  but 
ventured  to  ask  for  an  explanation,  my  degree  was 
refused  me."  It  is  not  every  one  who  is  so  frank  as 
this  gentleman  or  as  another  who  signed  himself 
F.S.I.,  and  when  asked  of  what  Society  or  Institute 
he  was  a  Fellow,  replied,  "  I  am  not  a  Fellow  of  any 
Society  or  Institute;  F.S.I,  is  an  honorary  degree 
which  I  conferred  on  myself  for  my  own  use  and 
benefit." 

I  do  not  propose  to  touch  on  the  large  question 
whether  we  get  our  deserts  in  life  from  the  Supreme 
Power,  but  the  relations  of  human  beings  are  more 
easily  discussed.  Do  we  get  what  we  deserve  from 

68 


"B.   A.,  D.   J." 

our  fellow-creatures?  Very  few  are  so  frank  as  the 
clergyman  who  styled  himself  B.A.,  d.j.,  and  yet  if 
the  deepest  thought  were  spoken,  it  might  be  found 
that  many  are  laureated  in  the  same  way.  They 
think  they  have  a  right  to  some  title  or  distinction 
which  has  never  been  conferred  upon  them.  I  have 
been  told  by  those  who  know  about  examinations  that 
many  candidates  are  convinced  that  it  is  the  unfair- 
ness of  the  examiners  which  prevents  them  getting 
through.  They  are  like  Mr.  Barrie's  student  who 
came  home  without  a  prize.  Gradually  it  leaked  out 
that  the  professors  had  a  spite  against  him.  I 
imagine  that  whenever  the  Birthday  List  of  Honours 
is  published  or  the  roll  of  Honorary  Degrees  at  the 
Universities,  there  are  many  searchings  of  heart. 
Also  there  are  those  who  are  unable  to  console  their 
disappointment  at  missing  a  professional  prize.  It 
is  not  unkind  nor  untrue,  for  example,  to  say  of  the 
late  Sir  William  Harcourt  that  he  styled  himself 
Prime  Minister  d.j.  Let  any  reader  ask  himself 
candidly  where  he  thinks  he  ought  to  stand  in  the 
business  or  profession  he  pursues.  I  venture  to 
say  that  not  a  few  will  find  themselves  linked  in 
sympathy  to  the  candid  gentleman  pilloried  by 
Crockford. 

Nor  is  it  to  be  denied  that  the  apportionment  of 
honours  and  preferments  is  often  unjust.  Men  of 
real  eminence,  who  have  done  true  service  in  science 
or  in  literature,  go  undecorated  to  the  grave,  while 
pushers,  as  A.K.H.B.  called  them,  not  infrequently 

69 


THE   KEY   OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

get  a  great  deal  more  than  they  deserve.  It  is  not 
wonderful  that  there  is  much  jealousy  in  human  life. 
Thus  where  you  meet  a  company  of  lawyers  you  will 
hear  their  candid  criticisms  of  the  judges.  I  have 
even  heard  popular  preachers  marked  in  plain  and 
low  figures  by  their  brethren.  It  has  been  admitted 
that  among  literary  men  there  is  something  of  the 
same  spirit  manifested  at  times.  It  may  be  done 
quite  innocently  and  without  serious  malice.  It  is 
not  wonderful  if  the  old  are  slightly  irritated  by  the 
sudden  promotion  of  the  young.  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
who  had  such  a  keen  eye  for  the  facts  of  human  life, 
frequently  refers  to  this  one.  Thus  in  the  Abbot 
honest  Adam  Woodcock  slightly  resents  the  advance 
of  Roland,  after  experiencing  the  weight  of  his  arm. 
Roland,  however,  did  not  forget  to  drop  a  few  gold 
pieces,  and  to  make  a  signal  of  kind  recollection  and 
enduring  friendship  as  he  departed  at  full  gallop 
to  overtake  the  Queen.  "  It  is  not  fairy  money," 
said  honest  Adam,  weighing  and  handling  the  gold. 
*'  And  it  was  Master  Roland  himself,  that  is  a  cer- 
tain thing — the  same  open  hand,  and  by  Our  Lady  " 
(shrugging  his  shoulders) — "the  same  ready  fist! 
My  Lady  will  hear  of  this  gladly,  for  she  mourns 
for  him  as  if  he  were  her  son.  And  to  see  how  gay 
he  is !  But  these  light  lads  are  sure  to  be  uppermost 
as  the  froth  to  be  on  the  top  of  the  quart  pot.  Your 
man  of  solid  parts  remains  ever  a  falconer."  I  have 
put  the  last  sentence  in  italics,  for  it  is  golden.  It 
goes  right  to  the  truth  of  human  feeling,  and  sug- 

70 


"B.   A.,   D.    J." 

gests  the  consolation  wherewith  the  stolid  unsuccess- 
ful man  tries  to  make  himself  comfortable.  By  the 
way,  the  name  Adam  suggests  Adam  Bede,  who  ex- 
perienced something  like  Roland  when  he  was  told 
by  Captain  Donnithorne  that  he  was  to  dine  up- 
stairs with  the  large  tenants.  Mr.  Casson,  the  but- 
ler who  "  was  not  butler  for  fifteen  years  without 
learning  the  rights  and  wrongs  about  dinner,"  was 
naturally  offended.  He  considered  Adam  "  rather 
lifted  up  and  peppery  like  " :  he  thought  the  gentry 
made  more  fuss  about  this  young  carpenter  than 
was  necessary;  they  made  no  fuss  about  Mr.  Casson, 
although  he  had  been  an  excellent  butler  for 
fifteen  years. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  in  Quentin  Durward 
Le  Balafre,  his  uncle,  is  hurt  by  his  nephew's  happy 
fortune.  Even  Crawford  is  surprised,  though 
pleased.  "  Thou  art  a  singular  youth,"  said  Craw- 
ford, stroking  the  head  of  the  young  Durward,  as  a 
grandsire  might  do  that  of  his  descendant ;  "  certes, 
you  have  had  as  meikle  good  fortune  as  if  you  had 
been  born  with  a  lucky  hood  on  your  head."  "  All 
this  comes  of  his  gaining  an  archer's  place  at  such 
early  years,"  said  Le  Balafre;  "  I  never  was  so  much 
talked  of,  fair  nephew,  because  I  was  five-and-twenty 
years  old  before  I  was  Tiors  de  page"  "  And  an 
ill-looking  mountainous  monster  of  a  page  thou  wert, 
Ludovic,"  said  the  old  commander,  "  with  a  beard 
like  a  baker's  shool,  and  a  back  like  old  Wallace 
Wight."  The  triumphs  of  these  heroes  had  justifi- 

.71 


THE  KEY   OF   THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

cation,  and  were  modestly  borne,  but  there  are  tri- 
umphs of  another  kind. 

Why  do  men  fail  to  get  their  deserts?  Partly 
through  causes  which  are  not  within  their  control 
and  partly  through  their  own  fault.  There  is  a 
large  element  of  what  we  call  luck  in  human  life.  An 
important  place  falls  to  a  man  because  he  is  on  the 
spot,  because  he  has  been  able  to  do  some  little  service 
to  a  powerful  personage,  because  he  makes  his  appli- 
cation at  the  propitious  moment.  Proximity  is  an 
influential  factor  in  the  disposition  of  affairs.  The 
patron  appoints  to  a  vacancy  some  man  whom  he 
personally  knows  and  likes.  Even  in  examinations 
luck  plays  its  part.  When  Lord  Kelvin  was  a  stu- 
dent at  Cambridge  he  was  universally  held  to  be  a 
mathematical  genius  of  the  first  order.  But  when 
the  examination  for  the  Tripos  came  on,  it  was 
noticed  that  another  candidate  was  writing  with  ex- 
traordinary celerity  and  precision.  It  turned  out 
that  this  candidate  had  a  singular  power  of  solving 
problems  quickly  and  accurately.  He  cleared  paper 
after  paper,  and  came  out  Senior  Wrangler  several 
hundred  marks  above  his  rival  if  I  recollect  well.  He 
took  an  honourable  place  at  the  University,  and  was 
a  man  of  mark,  but  for  one  who  recognises  the  name 
of  Stephen  Parkinson  there  are  a  thousand  who  are 
familiar  with  that  of  Lord  Kelvin.  I  do  not  wonder 
that  some  people  are  superstitious  about  luck.  There 
are  those  who  have  almost  every  virtue.  They  are 
patient,  persevering,  and  constant.  Yet  somehow 

72 


«B.   A.,   D.   J." 

nothing  goes  well  with  them.  They  fail  through  the 
fault  of  others.  I  have  known  such  men  in  business, 
men  who  have  been  afraid  because  they  had  gained 
the  reputation  of  being  unlucky ;  others  again  pros- 
pering everything  they  touch.  Sir  Walter  Scott 
said  once,  very  pathetically,  that  no  one  flourished 
under  his  shadow.  There  are  those  whose  shadow 
seems  to  carry  fortune  with  it.  They  may  not  be 
particularly  successful  themselves,  but  every  one 
who  is  associated  with  them  profits  by  the  associa- 
tion. Such  things  cannot  be  explained.  I  am  con- 
vinced that  about  a  great  many  comparative  failures 
in  life  we  can  only  say  that  somehow  things  have 
always  been  against  them. 

While  admitting  this  to  the  full,  I  am  neverthe- 
less of  opinion  that  in  some  cases  we  do  get  our  de- 
serts, and  are  often  treated  far  better  than  we 
deserve,  this  even  though  we  protest  in  silence  or  in 
speech.  Authors  are  apt  to  lay  the  blame  of  their 
failure  on  the  blindness  and  perversity  of  critics. 
They  are  very  apt  to  fancy  that  there  is  a  conspir- 
acy against  them.  Sydney  Dobell  was  by  no  means 
a  vindictive  or  suspicious  man,  but  he  went  to  his 
grave  believing  that  Balder  would  yet  be  reckoned 
among  the  great  poems  of  the  language,  and  the 
serenity  with  which  he  held  to  this  fact  is  affecting. 
Rossetti  fancied  that  a  league  of  conspirators  was 
busy  in  destroying  his  reputation.  The  late  Profes- 
sor Nichol,  of  Glasgow,  a  man  of  excellent  parts, 
held  that  the  London  critics  were  prejudiced  against 

73 


THE   KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

him  because  he  was  a  Scotsman,  and  never  rendered 
him  even  a  modicum  of  justice.  But  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  each  had  his  just  reward;  not  all  the  praise  nor 
all  the  blame  was  true,  but  taken  together  they  made 
the  truth.  No  man  was  ever  written  down  save  by 
himself,  and  it  is  equally  true  that  no  man  was  ever 
written  up  save  by  himself.  What  is  true  about 
authors  is  true  about  the  rest.  But  apart  from  the 
question  of  ability  there  are  certain  moral  causes 
that  frequently  account  for  failure.  It  has  to  be 
remembered  that  a  man's  qualities  must  be  taken  to- 
gether. He  may  have  certain  qualities  of  extraor- 
dinary worth,  but  he  has  others  which  neutralise 
them.  The  sources  of  failure  are,  I  think,  mainly 
timidity,  temper,  vanity,  indolence,  and  want  of 
adaptability,  and  these  are  so  subtly  intermingled 
that  it  is  often  difficult  to  distinguish  between  them. 
Timidity  accounts  for  many  failures  of  worthy 
people.  There  comes  to  a  youth  his  one  great 
chance,  and  he  misses  it.  He  distrusts  himself  and 
disobeys  the  call,  thinking  it  will  be  repeated  when 
he  is  better  prepared  to  answer  it.  That  call  never 
comes  again.  I  knew  in  his  old  age  a  preacher  who 
in  his  youth  was  famous  far  beyond  the  bounds  of 
the  little  country  town  where  he  fulfilled  his  ministry. 
He  was  called  to  London  when  in  the  springtide  of 
his  early  promise.  He  decided  to  wait,  and  he  was 
left  alone  working  honourably,  but  becoming  by  de- 
grees the  shadow  of  his  early  self.  Another  I  think 
of  was  offered  at  twenty-five  an  important  journal- 

74 


"B.   A.,   D.   J." 

istic  appointment  In  the  colonies,  but  he  hesitated 
to  leave  home;  he  thought  another  chance  would  ar- 
rive, and  he  remained  to  the  day  of  his  death  a 
humble  clerk.  Generally  speaking,  the  call  to  wider 
work  should  be  bravely  answered.  Archbishop  Til- 
lotson,  who  seems  to  have  been  really  unwilling  to 
accept  the  Archbishopric  of  Canterbury,  wrote: 
"  There  may  perhaps  be  as  much  ambition  in  de- 
clining greatness  as  in  courting  it." 

Temper  is  one  of  the  most  potent  causes  of 
failure.  Temper  when  controlled  is  a  singular  force 
— no  man  perhaps  ever  climbed  high  without  it; 
uncontrolled  it  is  devastating.  The  man  who  in  cir- 
cumstances of  provocation  can  demean  himself  with 
calmness  and  dignity  is  the  man  who  conquers.  To 
indulge  in  temper  is  to  inflict  on  oneself  a  much 
graver  injury  than  is  inflicted  on  any  enemy.  Some 
men  can  refrain  from  furious  outbursts,  but  their 
temper  finds  vent  in  querulousness,  which  is  almost 
worse.  The  querulous  man  is  the  most  intolerable 
of  associates.  We  see  men  of  very  moderate  abilities 
rising  to  great  places  in  the  Church  and  State. 
They  do  not  obtain  their  promotion  without  a  rea- 
son. They  had  no  single  quality  of  emphatic  dis- 
tinction, but  they  had  a  happy  union  of  serviceable 
qualities.  They  could  be  trusted  to  do  nothing  in- 
discreet and  nothing  violent.  One  eminent  writer 
of  the  Church  of  England  whom  I  knew  destroyed 
his  career  by  his  fretfulness.  Intellectually  he  was 
far  above  others  who  became  Bishops,  but  he  was 

75 


THE  KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

repeatedly  passed  over  because  men  felt  that  they 
could  not  trust  his  temper  and  his  tact.  Of  political 
careers  wrecked  by  temper  it  might  be  cruel  to  give 
instances. 

Vanity,  laziness,  and  want  of  adaptability  go  to- 
gether. We  are  all  lazy  by  nature.  It  is  only  by 
severe  exercise  of  the  will  that  most  of  us  work  at 
all.  We  should  be  less  lazy  if  we  were  less  vain.  The 
indulgent  critic  writes,  "  Mr.  B.  might  safely  rest 
his  reputation  on  this  poem  alone,"  and  Mr.  B.  be- 
lieves him  and  comes  to  nothing.  The  vain  man  says 
of  his  work,  "  It  will  do,"  and  leaves  it,  and  earns  a 
just  condemnation.  In  spite  of  all  the  talk  about 
the  strenuous  life  there  are  very  few  people  who  live 
it — very  few  who  day  by  day  and  year  by  year  go 
on  with  resolute  hard  work.  Vanity  also  often  leads 
men  to  disdain  lowly  beginnings,  and  to  eat  their 
hearts  out  in  vain  ambition.  Want  of  adaptability 
may  be  traced  in  many  cases  to  vanity,  but  in  many 
others  it  means  simply  a  certain  stiffness  and  dim- 
ness of  vision.  There  are  multitudes  who  persist  in 
adhering  to  the  old  methods  which  once  succeeded, 
and  shut  their  eyes  to  the  facts  that  glare  around 
them.  They  will  not  see  that  all  things  are  in  pro- 
cess of  change,  and  that  those  who  cannot  change 
with  the  changed  times  must  perish. 

In  the  end  it  is  wisest  for  us  frankly  to  accept  the 
judgment  of  our  fellows.  Most  of  us  happily  do 
so.  We  are  quite  contented  and  even  very  thankful. 
We  see  that  life  has  been  kinder  to  us  than  it  might 

76 


"B.   A.,   D.   J." 

have  been.  We  may  sometimes  confer  degrees  upon 
ourselves,  but  we  have  the  sense  to  do  so  in  the  very 
depth  of  silence.  We  do  not  challenge  the  verdict 
of  the  judges ;  we  are  glad  in  our  hearts  that  it  has 
not  been  sterner.  "  I  hope  you  will  not  allow  your- 
self," wrote  the  wise  Master  of  Balliol,  "  to  become 
the  most  miserable  and  contemptible  of  all  charac- 
ters, a  disappointed  man." 


77 


CHAPTER  IX 

CONCERNING    EELS 

IT  is  an  ancient  fancy  that  every  type  in  the  lower 
kingdoms  of  life  is  represented  in  humanity.  It  may 
be  admitted  that  eels  are  not  distinguished  for  back- 
bone, and  sometimes  we  are  forced  to  recognise  that 
this  is  true  of  a  certain  number  among  men. 

It  is  fair  to  say  that  eels  have  their  qualities  in 
spite  of  this.  I  do  not  think  many  of  us  would  join 
in  the  raptures  of  a  French  naturalist  who  speaks  of 
their  slender  form,  "  their  delicate  proportions,  their 
elegant  colours,  their  gracious  flexions,  their  easy 
gyrations,  their  rapid  springs,  their  superior  swim- 
ming, their  industry,  their  instinct,  and  their  socia- 
bility." But  they  were  admired  in  old  times.  The 
Egyptians  paid  the  eel  so  great  a  compliment  as  to 
enrol  it  among  their  gods,  and  the  Greeks  invoked 
the  eel  as  the  goddess  of  pleasure.  Even  so  amongst 
human  beings  who  have  no  backbone,  there  are  many 
amiable  and  admirable  qualities.  Their  weakness 
would  never  be  found  out  except  in  a  time  of  strain 
and  purging.  So  long  as  things  go  quietly  and 
smoothly,  they  do  well,  and  even  distinguish  them- 
selves. A  day  comes  when  manhood  is  put  to  the 

78 


CONCERNING   EELS 

proof,  and  It  is  found  they  have  none.  It  is  a  dis- 
agreeable discovery,  and  they  like  it  as  little  as  Peter 
in  the  story  liked  the  loss  of  his  shadow. 

Let  us,  however,  be  exceedingly  careful  before  we 
call  any  one  destitute  of  backbone.  It  is  a  grave 
accusation,  and  it  is  often  made  on  plausible 
grounds,  and  yet  quite  falsely.  There  are  those  who 
come  very  slowly  to  a  conclusion,  and  are  yet  the 
most  immovable  and  staunch  of  all  once  they  have 
reached  it.  They  are  inaccessible  to  sneers  and 
threats.  They  are  not  touched  by  blandishment. 
They  may  even  be  somewhat  dull  in  the  apprehen- 
sion of  argument.  But  they  seek  to  know  their  duty, 
and  once  they  know  it  they  do  it  at  all  costs. 
Nunc  demum  redit  animus.  They  pass  into  the 
safest  of  all  forms  of  enthusiasm,  the  enthusiasm 
that  reposes  on  underlying  sanity  and  moderation. 
They  say  to  themselves  with  Hamlet,  that  in  the 
very  torrent,  tempest,  and  whirlwind  of  their  passion 
they  must  acquire  and  beget  a  temperance,  for  only 
thus  can  perfect  and  enduring  deeds  be  done.  Some- 
times men  of  apparently  warm  zeal  and  simple  pur- 
pose are  the  first  to  join  the  ranks,  and  alas  the  first 
also  to  turn  their  backs.  Others  who  come  in  late, 
after  sore  perplexities  and  not  unreasonable  hesita- 
tion, have  left  behind  them  a  ring  of  true  heroism 
of  which  the  echo  in  the  corridors  of  time  will  never 
quite  die.  Even  when  the  years  wax,  their  courage 
does  not  wane.  They  can  face  declared  enemies  and 
lukewarm  friends  and  long  delay,  and  still  be  firm. 

79 


THE  KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

Let  us  be  careful,  then,  not  to  make  confusions. 
There  will  be  time  enough  to  test  us  all. 

Yet  there  are  eels,  and  I  will  briefly  note  some  of 
their  characteristics.  The  naturalists  say  that  "  the 
best  time  for  catching  large  eels  is  after  heavy 
storms  and  floods."  When  the  wind  blows,  and  the 
tempest  rises,  and  the  floods  break  forth,  then  we 
discover  the  sad  secret  that  in  a  time  of  fair  weather 
might  have  been  kept.  The  sausage-seller  in  Aristo- 
phanes addresses  Cleon :  "  Yes,  for  it  is  with  you  as 
with  eel-catchers,  when  the  lake  is  still  they  take 
nothing,  but  if  they  stir  up  the  mud  they  have  good 
sport;  so  have  you  when  you  disturb  the  State." 
But  the  hardest  thing  for  those  who  disturb  the 
State  is  not  the  opposition  of  foes ;  that  is  in  the 
day's  work.  It  is  in  the  revelation  of  eels.  It  is  the 
discovery  that  many  who  could  do  all  that  was  needed 
in  a  quiet  time,  who  knew  the  history  of  the  past  and 
the  deeds  of  great  men,  and  the  reasons  of  their  sacri- 
fice, and  could  set  them  forth  with  the  most  moving 
eloquence  in  speech  and  print,  had  none  of  their  cour- 
age, and  could  themselves  encounter  no  real  hazard. 
Yes,  it  is  not  a  pleasant  discovery,  but  there  are  com- 
pensations. We  find  out  what  iron  there  is  in  the  blood 
of  many  who  were  contented  to  remain  quiet  and 
obscure  till  they  saw  that  their  help  was  needed. 
How  often  even  on  this  earth  the  first  are  shown  to 
be  the  last,  and  the  last  first. 

The  most  unpleasant  thing  about  eels,  and  that 
which  has  most  prejudiced  people  against  them,  is 

80 


CONCERNING   EELS 

their  serpentine  quality,  their  dreadful  way  of  wrig- 
gling and  writhing.  It  is  well  known  that  the  eel 
has  very  great  powers  of  defence.  The  difficulty  of 
holding  an  eel  is  proverbial.  It  has  been  quaintly 
said,  "  Every  one  knows  that  to  hold  an  eel  with  the 
naked  hand  is  as  abortive  an  attempt  as  detaining 
a  pig  by  the  tail,  after  it  has  been  well  soaped,  or, 
in  morals,  to  hold  a  knave  to  his  word."  There  is 
a  Latin  proverb,  "  He's  an  eel  and  is  off."  John 
Leech  has  a  drawing  of  the  bursting  of  an  aquarium. 
He  renders  inimitably  the  vain  efforts  of  an  old  lady 
to  pick  up  her  favourite  eel  with  a  pair  of  tongs. 
For  a  man  who  has  no  backbone  and  does  not  dis- 
guise it,  some  sympathy  may  be  felt.  But  the  wrig- 
gling is  repulsive.  In  every  crisis  we  should  have 
plain  speech.  You  may  say,  "  I  have  not  made  up 
my  mind,  and  I  must  have  time  to  think  it  over  " ; 
or  you  may  say,  "I  have  made  up  my  mind,  and  I 
will  face  the  fight " ;  or  you  may  say,  "  I  have  made 
up  my  mind,  and  I  am  not  going  to  fight."  But  to 
leave  people  in  a  perplexity — that  is  not  good,  that 
is  not  worthy.  I  have  listened  to  speeches  where  the 
orator  went  on  and  on  till  it  seemed  as  if  there  could 
be  but  one  conclusion  to  his  words.  One  sentence 
seemed  inevitable,  one  sentence  would  have  crowned 
the  rest  and  given  hope  and  heart  to  all.  That  sen- 
tence was  not  spoken,  and  the  audience  went  home 
confused  and  miserable. 

The  eel,  however,  has  always  a  great  deal  to  say 
for  himself.     He  has  extraordinary  ingenuity  and 

81 


THE   KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

resource  in  defence.  You  say,  "  He  cannot  possibly 
get  over  that.  This  new  development  must  force  him 
into  decisive  action."  But  you  are  mistaken.  The 
eel  can  surmount  obstacles  which  would  at  first  sight 
appear  to  present  unconquerable  difficulties.  I  have 
read  of  young  eels  ascending  the  upright  posts  and 
gates  of  the  waterworks  at  Norwich  until  they  came 
into  the  dam  above.  Dr.  Davy,  a  brother  of  Sir 
Humphry  Davy,  tells  us  that  at  Ballyshannon  the 
eels  ascended  perpendicular  rocks.  Here  is  a  part 
of  his  dialogue. 

AMICUS:  "This  is  indeed  a  curious  sight.  Here 
are  some  eels  wriggling  up  a  perpendicular  rock. 
How  is  it  they  accomplish  this?  " 

PISCATOE  :  "  I  believe  they  are  able  to  accom- 
plish it  chiefly  owing  to  two  circumstances — their 
mucous,  glutinous  surface  favouring  adhesion,  and 
their  form  small  and  slender.  None  of  these  eels, 
you  perceive,  are  more  than  two  or  three  inches  long, 
and  slender  in  proportion.  Watch  one  that  is  now 
in  progress  ascending  that  perpendicular  rock.  See 
how  it  makes  its  tail  a  support,  adhering  by  that 
whilst  it  projects  itself  upwards;  and  this  done,  now 
adhering  by  its  trunk,  it  draws  its  tail  after  it.  These 
are  its  steps,  and  the  asperities  of  the  surface  of  the 
rock  are  its  stairs  favouring  its  exertions." 

There  is  one  other  characteristic  of  eels  in  all 
kingdoms,  and  that  is  the  intensity  of  their  objection 
to  be  skinned.  Their  skin  was  held  to  be  particu- 
larly valuable,  and  the  ancient  Romans  are  said  to 

82 


CONCERNING   EELS 

have  used  it  to  whip  naughty  boys.  All  the  same  the 
eels  do  not  like  to  part  with  it,  and  to  take  it  from 
them  is  a  matter  of  no  common  difficulty.  I  think 
perhaps  that  we  should  not  attempt  to  skin  them. 
We  need  not  reason  much  with  them,  nor  reproach 
them,  nor  hold  them  up  to  scorn.  Everything 
teaches  the  wisdom  of  charity  and  patience.  Per- 
haps some  of  us  who  think  we  have  courage  will  our- 
selves turn  out  eels,  and  do  infinitely  more  harm  to 
the  causes  we  have  espoused  than  we  could  if  we  had 
never  touched  them.  There  are  only  a  few  men 
who  can  speak  of  their  services,  and  these  men  are 
the  last  to  boast.  It  is  bitter  to  see  desertion  and 
cowardice  and  apathy  when  zeal  would  have  made 
all  the  difference.  But  it  has  ever  been  so,  and  it  is 
wisest  and  kindest  to  think  of  those  who  fail  as 
"  God's  own  unaccountables."  A  commentator  on 
Shakespeare  says  well  that  the  poet,  while  drawing  a 
clear  line  between  good  and  evil,  does  not  fly  into  a 
passion  with  stupidity,  or  ignorance,  or  pretension, 
or  even  meanness.  He  knows  that  these  are  repre- 
sented in  Parliament,  and  by  fathers  of  families  and 
respectable  householders.  He  looks  on  many  things 
which  put  the  little  ardent  folk  out  of  temper  with 
his  calm,  slow,  wise  smile  as  though  he  would  say, 
"  If  God  can  put  up  with  all  these  creatures  and 
ignoramuses,  and  simulations  of  human  beings  in 
His  scheme  of  creation,  there  is  no  reason  why  I 
should  fume  and  fret  or  denounce  or  argue  with 
them.  He  finds  room  for  them  all  in  His  plan;  I'll 

83 


make  a  place  for  them  in  mine."  After  all  there  are 
true  soldiers  left,  and  there  is  no  need  to  think 
that  treason  has  eaten  into  the  heart-core  of  the 
commonwealth,  and  that  men  are  willing  to  be 
slaves. 


CHAPTER  X 

SWELLED    HEAD 

SWELLED  HEAD  is  certainly  one  of  the  maladies  of 
youth.  It  is  the  consequence  of  a  sudden  success, 
great  or  small.  It  is  not  to  be  confounded  with  con- 
ceit and  cocksureness.  These  qualities  are  often  to 
be  observed  where  no  success  has  been  won.  The  tone 
of  certainty,  assurance,  and  arrogance  in  a  young 
man  may  be  a  sign  of  weakness  or  the  sign  of  great 
power.  Time  will  show.  I  remember  the  days  when 
Lord  Randolph  Churchill  was  considered  a  mere 
mountebank,  impertinent,  ignorant,  and  foolish.  But 
as  he  went  on  the  nation  began  to  discover  that  he  had 
qualities.  I  recall  his  coming  to  Edinburgh  and  mak- 
ing some  speeches  which  I  read.  Replying  to  the 
taunt  that  he  was  a  young  man,  he  said  that  if  this 
was  an  evil,  it  was  an  evil  that  was  steadily  being 
cured.  "  By  the  mere  process  of  survival  we  shall 
reach  at  last  the  summit  of  the  way."  After  that  I 
went  on  reading  him.  It  was  not  wonderful  that  he 
had  his  way  with  the  Conservative  party,  and  became 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  and  leader  of  the  House 
of  Commons.  Doubtless  his  last  days  were  sad,  but 
this  was  due  largely  to  physical  reasons.  His  work 
endures,  for  he  was  the  most  powerful  agent  in  bring- 
ing Conservatism  into  harmony  with  the  ideas  of  the 

85 


THE  KEY   OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

populace.  A  far  greater  man,  Lord  Beaconsfield, 
had  to  climb  his  way.  He  failed  in  his  first  House  of 
Commons  speech,  and  was  compelled  to  sit  down  amid 
roars  of  laughter,  but  he  closed  with  the  defiant  as- 
sertion that  the  time  would  come  when  the  House  of 
Commons  would  hear  him,  and  the  time  did  come.  It 
was  perhaps  a  foolish  thing  to  say,  but  it  did  not 
prove  him  to  be  a  fool.  Two  of  the  best  judges  in 
the  House,  Mr.  Sheil  and  Sir  Robert  Peel,  saw  in  his 
speech  the  germs  of  future  excellence,  and  Sheil  was 
kind  enough  to  give  him  wise  counsel  by  which  he 
profited. 

Neither  is  Swelled  Head  a  malady  which  follows 
on  a  very  gradual  success.  Many  people  come  to 
what  they  have  by  a  slow  ascent.  They  are  not  con- 
scious one  year  of  being  better  off  than  they  were  the 
year  before.  They  have  to  take  a  period  of  years 
ere  they  can  be  sure  that  they  have  made  any  pro- 
gress. Their  success  creeps  on  them,  and  they  are 
hardly  aware  of  it,  and  therefore  show  no  conscious- 
ness of  superiority.  Nor  is  Swelled  Head  to  be  con- 
fused with  the  settled  complacency,  rising  sometimes 
to  pomposity,  of  prosperous  people,  the  kind  of 
people  who  are  called  Sir  Joseph  or  Sir  Robert, 
types  so  familiar  that  a  caricaturist  could  almost 
draw  them  in  his  sleep.  For  this  kind  of  egotism 
there  is  no  cure,  and  it  has  its  comic  and  pleasing 
side.  In  that  little-known  but  ever-refreshing  book, 
Canning's  Literary  Remains,  there  is  an  admirable 
sketch  of  Erskine.  He  is  made  to  perorate  as  fol- 

86 


SWELLED  HEAD 

lows  at  a  meeting  of  the  Friends  of  Freedom :  "  Mr. 
Erskine  concluded  by  recapitulating,  in  a  strain  of 
agonising  and  impressive  eloquence,  the  several  more 
prominent  heads  of  his  speech: — He  had  been  a 
soldier  and  a  sailor,  and  had  a  son  at  Winchester 
School — he  had  been  called  by  special  retainers,  dur- 
ing the  summer,  into  many  different  and  distant 
parts  of  the  country — travelling  chiefly  in  post- 
chaises — he  felt  himself  called  upon  to  declare  that 
his  poor  faculties  were  at  the  service  of  his  country 
—of  the  free  and  enlightened  part  of  it  at  least — 
he  stood  here  as  a  man — he  stood  in  the  eye,  indeed 
in  the  hand,  of  God — to  whom  (in  the  presence  of  the 
company  and  waiters)  he  solemnly  appealed — he  was 
of  noble,  perhaps  Royal  Blood — he  had  a  house  at 
Hampstead — was  convinced  of  the  necessity  of  a 
thorough  and  radical  Reform — his  pamphlet  had 
gone  through  thirty  editions,  skipping  alternately 
the  odd  and  even  numbers — he  loved  the  Constitution, 
to  which  he  would  cling  and  grapple — and  he  was 
clothed  with  the  infirmities  of  man's  nature — he 
would  apply  to  the  present  French  rulers  (particu- 
larly Barras  and  Rubel)  the  words  of  the  poet — 

"Be  to  their  faults  a  little  blind, 
Be  to  their  virtues  very  kind; 
Let  all  their  ways  be  unconfined, 
And  clap  the  padlock  on  their  mind ! " 

And  for  these  reasons,  thanking  the  gentlemen  who 
had  done  him  the  honour  to  drink  his  health,  he  should 

87 


THE   KEY  OF   THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

propose  *  Merlin,  the  late  Minister  of  Justice,  and 
Trial  by  Jury ! '  " 

I  may  also  note  that  the  self-esteem  common  among 
people  of  small  gifts  and  less  performance  should 
not  be  too  rashly  disturbed.  It  is  the  armour  in 
which  they  fight  the  world.  It  protects  them  from 
the  blows  of  fate.  The  breaking  down  of  vanity  may 
often  mean  the  breaking  down  of  the  whole  person- 
ality. It  is  not  strong  enough  to  meet  the  world 
unclothed,  unarmed. 

Nor  should  it  be  thought  for  a  moment  that 
Swelled  Head  is  the  invariable  result  of  even  great 
success.  I  have  witnessed  repeatedly  and  near  at 
hand  the  fortunes  of  young  men  who  became  famous 
almost  as  suddenly  as  Byron  did.  It  might  well 
raise  one's  whole  estimate  of  human  nature  to  wit- 
ness the  genuine  modesty,  simplicity,  humility,  and 
kindness  which  were  carried  unaltered  through  the 
novel  and  testing  strain.  I  have  seen  such  success 
make  men  more  humble  and  more  anxious  to  do  the 
best  that  ever  they  could.  But  I  ha,ve  seen  and 
heard  of  instances  where  the  result  was  different. 
Let  it  be  remembered  that  a  very  small  success  in- 
toxicates just  as  much  as  a  great  victory.  In  the 
land  of  the  Liliputians,  to  which  most  of  us  belong, 
the  difference  of  the  breadth  of  a  nail  in  stature 
crowns  a  man  king. 

How  does  Swelled  Head  show  itself? 

Sometimes  in  extreme  forms.  Men  have  been 
known  to  go  mad  after  a  succession  of  fever  fits. 

88 


SWELLED  HEAD 

Men  have  also  been  known  to  become  ashamed  of  their 
own  fathers  and  mothers,  to  deny  their  source  as  a 
quadroon  denies  his  blood.  They  have  even  become 
ashamed  of  their  toiling,  faithful  wives.  But  I  do 
not  say  that  such  manifestations  are  of  everyday  oc- 
currence. 

The  disease  of  Swelled  Head  may  show  itself  either 
in  the  ungenial  or  in  the  genial  way.  Sudden  suc- 
cess will  make  one  man  seclude  himself  from  the 
vulgar  herd.  He  becomes  cold,  proud,  inaccessible. 
He  shuns  the  haunts  of  his  fellow- workers.  He  re- 
pels what  he  takes  to  be  their  rude  familiarities.  I 
have  known  famous  young  men  who  were  only  to  be 
approached  through  a  series  of  rooms.  You  have 
to  deal  with  somebody  in  the  hall,  and  then  with 
somebody  in  another  room,  and  still  perhaps  with 
another.  And  if  you  pass  all  your  trials  you  might 
be  ushered  into  the  august  presence.  This  has  been 
told  to  me:  it  is  not  an  experience  of  my  own.  No 
human  being  ever  lived  for  whom  I  should  face  such 
perils.  This  ungenial  form  of  Swelled  Head  shows 
itself  also  in  censoriousness.  This  is  particularly 
the  case  when  the  successful  man  has  for  long  had  a 
very  poor  opinion  of  his  kind,  and  was  hardly  in 
circumstances  to  utter  it.  From  his  little  temporary 
eminence  he  launches  his  darts  right  and  left.  Most 
of  the  savage  and  reckless  things  said  in  this  world 
are  the  result  of  Swelled  Head.  When  people  are 
struggling  they  cannot  afford  to  say  them.  When 
they  find  their  true  place  they  neither  think  them  nor 

89 


THE   KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

say  them,  but  are  disposed  to  judge  their  companions 
in  the  hard  battle  very  charitably.  Another  un- 
genial  symptom  of  the  Swelled  Head  is  imperious- 
ness.  This  is  a  world  where  wills  are  crossed  and 
thwarted.  We  get  used  to  it  most  of  us,  and  come 
to  see  that  it  is  good  for  us.  But  a  young  man  con- 
scious of  great  powers  suffers  in  the  process.  When 
he  mounts  his  throne  he  becomes  an  Oriental  despot. 
One  of  our  authors  some  years  ago  had  a  dangerous 
illness,  during  which  he  received  surprising  proofs 
of  the  impression  he  had  made  upon  the  world.  As 
soon  as  he  recovered  he  commenced  a  number  of  law- 
suits. The  instance  is  quite  typical.  Last  among 
the  signs  of  this  form  of  Swelled  Head  is  pose,  what 
is  called  side.  You  meet  your  friend  after  his 
triumph,  and  he  does  not  cut  you.  In  fact  he  is 
quite  willing  to  converse  with  you,  but  there  is  an 
unwonted  majesty  in  his  accent,  a  weight  of  respon- 
sibility on  his  brow,  a  high  dignity  in  his  manner, 
and  oracular  and  even  Orphic  style  in  his  utterance, 
and  generally  a  very  strong  reminder  that  the  rela- 
tions between  him  and  you  cannot  be  what  they  once 
were.  You  may  be  invited  to  his  house,  but  if  so  you 
must  sleep  in  a  garret,  and  you  must  not  expect  that 
his  equals  shall  be  asked  to  meet  you.  Very  likely 
you  will  note  about  this  time  that  your  old  corre- 
spondent has  altered  the  form  of  his  signature.  The 
letters  of  his  name  are  larger,  and  there  are  more 
twirls  and  flourishes. 

There  are  genial  symptoms  also,  so  genial  occa- 
90 


SWELLED  HEAD 

sionally  that  they  make  a  distinct  addition  to  the 
gaiety  of  life.  A  good  many  years  ago  I  was  wont 
to  dine  once  a  week  with  two  or  three  friends.  A 
man  known  to  all  of  us  had  leapt  into  an  immense 
popularity.  He  was  a  most  companionable  being, 
and  we  saw  more  of  him  after  his  success  than  before 
it.  But  his  behaviour  furnished  us  with  tales,  which 
if  it  were  fair  to  write  them  down,  would  give  some 
amusement  to  the  reader.  They  helped  me  very 
much  in  getting  through  a  winter  of  exceptionally 
bitter  east  winds.  The  genial  form  of  Swelled  Head 
shows  itself  in  bragging,  sheer,  unadulterated,  una- 
bashed, endless  bragging.  A  man  will  talk  about 
the  compliments  paid  to  him,  about  the  wonder  of  his 
achievements,  about  the  magic  of  his  conquests,  about 
the  magnetic  force  by  which  he  attracts  and  subdues, 
and  he  will  talk  about  nothing  else.  If  he  reads  the 
newspapers,  it  is  only  to  find  allusions  to  his  per- 
formances. If  he  ever  listens  to  you,  which  is  very 
unlikely,  as  you  are  not  a  great  person,  it  is  to  sniff 
up  incense.  He  is  entertaining  for  a  time,  and  it 
gives  one  contentment  to  see  a  human  being  in  a 
world  like  this  so  perfectly  satisfied  with  his  fate. 
Sometimes  Swelled  Head  shows  itself  in  a  tendency 
to  over-advise.  One  of  my  oldest  and  shrewdest 
friends  thinks  that  this  is  the  surest  of  all  symptoms. 
The  victim  conveys  an  underlying  suggestion  of 
potentiality  in  all  his  assertions — "  If  I  were  you  I 
would  " — "  Had  I  been  consulted."  If  he  had  been 
present  at  the  incubation  of  the  eggs  of  the  common 

91 


THE   KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

goose  these  eggs  would  have  yielded  cygnets.  If  the 
patient  has  been  successful  in  any  one  thing  he  will 
advise  you  in  everything.  Ignorance  never  causes 
him  to  falter.  Theodore  Hook,  on  meeting  such  a  man 
accosted  him  with  the  words :  "  Excuse  me,  sir,  but  are 
you  anybody  in  particular  ?  "  Whenever  a  man  takes 
to  teaching  the  art  of  ovisuction  you  may  be  sure  of 
his  case.  All  is  meant  very  kindly.  The  success 
puts  the  man  on  better  terms  with  humanity,  but  as 
he  visibly  condescends,  it  does  not  put  humanity  on 
better  terms  with  him.  Extravagance  is  an  occa- 
sional symptom  of  Swelled  Head.  By  a  stroke  of 
good  fortune  a  man  makes  a  large  income,  and  all  his 
ideas  expand.  He  takes  it  for  granted  that  the  in- 
come will  continue  and  even  increase.  So  he  launches 
out  in  every  direction,  with  the  result  of  making  his 
whole  life  a  burden  to  himself.  He  is  often  very 
hospitable  and  very  generous,  but  there  are  base 
folks  who  will  take  what  he  can  give  them,  and  laugh 
at  him  all  the  time.  Sensitiveness  is  another  sign. 
Anything  like  criticism  rouses  extreme  irritation. 
Even  to  express  a  difference  of  opinion  is  an  offence. 
I  have  kept  to  the  last  the  most  dangerous  form 
perhaps  in  which  Swelled  Head  exhibits  itself.  The 
exalted  being  imagines  himself  above  rules.  He  is 
emancipated.  If  he  is  an  author  he  takes  it  for 
granted  that  anything  from  his  pen  is  of  value.  He 
does  not  need  to  strive  and  toil.  He  has  a  right  to 
special  treatment  from  his  publishers.  If  he  chooses 
to  rewrite  his  proofs,  and  thus  double  the  cost  of 

92 


SWELLED  HEAD 

production,  the  publisher  must  make  no  complaint. 
Engagements  he  may  repudiate  at  will.  There  is  no 
worse  sign  of  any  man  than  this.  If  he  is  in  business 
he  does  not  need  to  keep  hours  in  the  mechanical  and 
slavish  fashion  of  the  past.  Holidays  he  is  free  to 
take  whenever  he  pleases,  and  no  one  must  take  of- 
fence if  he  forgets  or  breaks  a  promise.  What  he 
would  not  tolerate  for  a  moment  from  any  of  his  own 
servants  he  thinks  he  has  a  right  to  do  without  chal- 
lenge. The  truth  is,  of  course,  that  any  success  in 
business,  if  it  is  to  continue,  implies  a  more  sedulous 
diligence  and  a  more  determined  industry.  Noblesse 
oblige. 

The  prognosis  in  this  malady,  to  use  the  phrase  of 
the  medical  dictionaries,  is  very  favourable.  It  is 
almost  always  curable.  This  is  because  there  are 
so  many  able  and  willing  physicians  who  are  eager 
to  deal  with  it  gratuitously.  This  is  an  extraordi- 
nary fact.  A  young  man  may  take  to  vice  or  to  drink- 
ing, and  hardly  anybody  will  say  a  word  to  arrest 
his  descent.  Even  very  kindly  people  will  accelerate 
the  downfall  of  a  tippler  by  their  mistaken  hospi- 
tality. How  few  have  the  courage  and  the  goodness 
to  speak  frankly  to  a  young  man  who  is  going  wrong. 
It  may  be  said  that  they  refrain  because  they  do 
not  wish  to  give  offence.  I  am  afraid  the  excuse 
is  insufficient.  When  any  one  has  Swelled  Head 
there  is  no  reluctance  to  offend  him.  On  all 
sides  men  take  up  the  cudgels  and  strike  as  hard  as 

93 


THE  KEY  OF   THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

they  can.  George  Meredith,  in  The  Shaving  of 
Shagpat,  has  expounded  for  us  the  value  of  the 
thwackings. 

"Lo!  of  hundreds  who  aspire, 

Eighties  perish — nineties  tire! 
They  who  bear  up  in  spite  of  wrecks  and  wracks, 
Were  seasoned  by  celestial  hail  of  thwacks. 

'Tis  the  thwacking  in  this  den 

Maketh  lions  of  true  men! 
So  we  are  nerved  to  break  the  clinging  mesh 
Which  tames  the  noblest  efforts  of  poor  flesh." 

But  that  is  the  ordinary  discipline  of  life,  to  which 
we  must  submit  manfully.  The  other  is  special,  very 
painful,  and  should  not  be  needed.  Doubtless  it  is 
administered  often  from  envy,  but  that  does  not  make 
it  more  easy.  Men  are  drawn  very  much  to  those 
who  remained  unspoiled,  uncorrupted  after  shining 
triumphs.  On  the  other  hand,  the  punishment  of 
Swelled  Head  may  be  lifelong.  Ground  is  lost  which 
can  never  be  recovered;  acts  of  recklessness  are  re- 
membered when  brave  and  fine  deeds  are  forgotten; 
gulfs  open  between  friends  over  which  no  bridge  is 
thrown. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    VALUE    OF   A    MARGIN 

THE  Swiss  tradition  of  William  Tell  is  now  said  to 
be  without  historic  foundation,  but  it  makes  a  good 
story  all  the  same.  Gessler,  the  Steward  of  the  Duke 
of  Austria,  perpetrated  atrocious  cruelties  on  the  in- 
habitants of  the  Forest  Cantons  in  his  master's  name. 
He  put  the  Ducal  hat  of  Austria  on  a  pole  in  the 
market-place  of  Altdorf,  and  threatened  with  mer- 
ciless punishment  any  one  who  passed  it  without  un- 
covering. William  Tell  failed  to  do  reverence  to  the 
hat,  and  was  sentenced  to  be  put  to  death  unless  he 
could  hit  an  apple  placed  on  his  son's  head.  He  did 
it.  "  What,"  asked  Gessler,  "  would  you  have  done 
with  the  second  arrow  in  your  bow?  "  "  Shot  you 
if  I  had  killed  my  child."  It  was  because  Tell  had 
a  second  arrow  that  he  was  able  to  send  the  first 
straight  to  its  mark.  In  other  words,  the  second 
arrow  is  the  margin,  and  his  feat  shows  the  value  of 
a  margin. 

There  ought  to  be  a  margin  in  the  matter  of 
money.  People  should  live  within  their  incomes. 
Hackneyed  though  the  quotation  is,  I  cannot  pass 
over  Mr.  Micawber's  famous  saying.  He  solemnly 
conjured  David  Copperfield  to  take  warning  by  his 
fate,  and  to  observe  that  if  a  man  had  £20  a  year  for 

95 


THE  KEY  OF   THE   BLUE    CLOSET 

his  income,  and  spent  £19, 19s.  6d.  he  would  be  happy, 
but  that  if  he  spent  £20,  Is.  he  would  be  miserable. 
Mr.  Micawber  was  a  man  of  unquenchable  spirits, 
and  rose  easily  to  the  height  of  earthly  bliss  when  his 
troubles  were  removed.  But  even  he  was  sometimes 
in  the  depths.  By  the  way,  a  friend  of  mine  com- 
plained the  other  day  that  Dickens  had  made  Micaw- 
ber successful  in  the  Colonies.  He  thought  that 
Micawber  could  never  have  been  successful  anywhere. 
I  doubt  it.  There  is  nothing  so  precious  in  a  new 
country  as  an  unbounded  hopefulness.  In  Martin 
Chuzzlewit  Dickens  catches  splendidly  the  indomita- 
ble confidence  and  assurance  of  the  emigrants  to 
Eden  when  in  their  worst  plight.  They  were  in  rags 
and  in  hunger,  and  yet  they  talked  about  the  finest 
country  in  the  world  and  the  decadence  of  poor  old 
England.  It  is  a  spirit  like  this  that  conquers  a  new 
country,  so  I  have  always  believed  that  Mr.  Micaw- 
ber did  fairly  well  in  Port  Middlebay,  that  he  did 
become  a  magistrate,  and  that  the  cheering  with 
which  Mr.  Micawber  was  received  defied  description. 
Again  and  again  it  rose  and  fell  like  the  waves  of 
ocean,  and  a  tear  sprang  into  the  manliest  eye  of  the 
ninety-four  eyes  present  when  Mr.  Micawber  warned 
the  younger  portion  of  his  audience  from  the  shoals 
of  ever  incurring  pecuniary  liabilities  which  they  were 
unable  to  liquidate.  However,  we  are  not  all  so 
buoyant  as  Mr.  Micawber,  and  I  am  pretty  sure  that 
much  of  the  misery  in  life  comes  from  people  living 
beyond  their  incomes,  and  suffering  constantly  from 

96 


THE    VALUE   OF   A   MARGIN 

the  resulting  anxieties  and  humiliations.  A  shrewd 
business  man  told  me  not  long  ago  that  he  was  con- 
vinced the  practice  was  increasing,  that  men  with 
moderate  incomes,  dependent  on  their  exertion,  were 
more  and  more  given  to  spending  the  last  penny 
and  had  rarely  a  £5  note  to  spare.  The  literary 
classes  are  blamed  especially  for  this  kind  of  dis- 
turbing extravagance,  whether  justly  or  not  I  can- 
not say.  In  any  case,  Mrs.  Oliphant,  by  her  own 
confession,  through  all  her  active  career,  lived  be- 
yond her  income.  She  had  magnificent  health  and 
courage  and  industry,  and  yet  it  told  upon  her.  She 
could  not  make  an  effort  after  self-control  and  econ- 
omy. She  never  knew  quite  at  the  beginning  of  the 
year  how  the  ends  would  come  together  at  Christmas. 
There  were  always  troubles  and  debts  and  forestall- 
ing of  money  earned.  She  had  generally  eaten  up 
the  price  of  a  book  before  it  was  printed.  "  I  ought 
to  have  been  worn  out  by  work  and  crushed  by  care 
half  a  hundred  times  by  all  rules,  but  I  never  was  so. 
Good  day  and  ill  day  have  balanced  with  each  other, 
and  I  got  through  year  after  year.  It  was  in  its  way 
an  immoral,  or  at  least  an  unmoral  mode  of  life, 
dashing  forward  in  the  face  of  all  obstacles,  and 
taking  up  all  burdens  with  a  kind  of  levity,  as  if  my 
strength  and  resource  could  never  fail.  If  they  had 
failed  I  should  have  been  left  in  the  direst  bank- 
ruptcy, and  I  had  no  right  to  reckon  upon  being 
always  delivered  at  the  critical  moment.  I  should 
think  any  one  who  did  so  blamable  now."  She  had 

97 


THE  KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

nothing  of  the  grace  of  thrift.  She  could  not  deny 
herself.  She  must  always  have  the  best  for  her  sons 
and  for  herself.  She  would  travel  first-class  in  the 
most  expensive  trains ;  she  would  live  in  the  best 
hotels;  and  she  would  educate  her  sons  at  Eton  and 
Oxford  in  spite  of  all  warnings.  She  got  through 
wonderfully,  and  left,  if  I  remember  rightly,  a  few 
hundred  pounds.  But  it  is  impossible  not  to  see  that 
her  life  and  work  were  greatly  marred  by  this  reck- 
lessness. She  professed  to  care  nothing  that  her 
work  was  spoiled.  "  What  is  the  reputation  of  a 
circulating  library  to  me?  Nothing,  and  less  than 
nothing — a  thing  the  thought  of  which  now  makes 
me  angry  that  any  one  should  for  a  moment  imagine 
I  cared  for  that,  or  that  it  made  up  for  any  loss.  .  . 
In  the  meantime,  it  was  good  to  have  kept  the  pot 
boiling,  and  maintained  the  cheerful  household  fire 
so  long,  though  it  is  smouldering  in  darkness  now." 
Much  more  grave  was  the  effect  on  her  sons.  They 
made  her  last  days  miserable,  and  she  came  to  see 
that  she  herself  had  spoiled  them.  She  had  accus- 
tomed them  to  the  easy  going  on  of  all  things,  never 
letting  them  see  her  anxieties,  or  know  that  there  was 
a  difficulty  about  anything,  till  their  minds  were 
formed  to  that  habit,  and  all  thought  of  labour  and 
necessity  was  taken  away.  "  It  was  a  kind  of  for- 
lorn pleasure  to  me  that  they  had  never  wanted  any- 
thing, but  this  turns  it  into  a  remorse."  Very  few 
people  have  the  amazing  courage  of  Mrs.  Oliphant, 
and  even  if  a  man  who  lives  extravagantly  keeps  an 

98 


THE    VALUE    OF   A   MARGIN 

easy  mind  there  are  others  whose  happiness  he  is  re- 
sponsible for,  who  suffer  very  deeply  sooner  or  later. 
It  is  one  of  the  mysteries  of  life  that  people  should 
try  to  keep  up  false  appearances,  that  they  live  in  a 
style  which  their  earnings  do  not  justify.  In  this 
way  they  incur  the  contemptuous  astonishment  of 
outsiders ;  they  grieve  their  own  friends ;  they  mort- 
gage the  peace  of  the  future,  for  none  of  us  should 
live  as  if  we  were  always  to  be  as  prosperous  as  we 
are  now.  The  clouds  are  coming  up.  There  will 
be  less  room  for  us  by  and  by,  and  by  a  little  careful- 
ness and  a  little  self-denial  we  may  brighten  im- 
measurably the  close  of  life  for  ourselves  and  for  our 
own.  One  can  see  in  the  lives  of  Dickens  and  Thack- 
eray how  very  bitter  carking  care  about  money  was 
to  them,  how  the  whole  spirit  of  Dickens  rose  fiercely 
against  it.  Did  Thackeray  ever  recover  the  pecuni- 
ary misfortunes  of  his  early  years?  The  iron  went 
deep  into  his  soul.  No  doubt  the  secret  of  living 
within  one's  income  is  mainly  to  be  found  in  the  wise 
choice  of  a  house,  for  according  to  a  man's  house  so 
will  his  expenses  be,  do  what  he  may. 

There  ought  also  to  be  as  far  as  possible  a  margin 
of  time  for  work.  That  is,  if  you  know  that  some- 
thing has  to  be  done  at  a  certain  time,  you  cannot 
begin  the  preparation  too  soon.  I  remember  a  coun- 
try minister  who  rendered  some  words  remarkably. 
He  said,  "  I  like  to  find  the  text  of  my  Sunday  ser- 
mon on  Monday,  and  keep  it  simpering  up  and  down 
in  my  mind  all  the  week."  I  suspect  he  meant  sim- 

99 


THE   KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

mering.  There  is  no  doubt  that  the  longer  a  sub- 
ject is  thought  over  the  more  adequately  it  is  treated 
when  the  time  comes  for  treatment.  There  are 
apparent  exceptions.  Sometimes  a  man  will  write 
his  best  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  on  a  theme  which 
has  suggested  itself  five  minutes  before  he  began. 
But  that  is  because  his  mind  was  unconsciously 
trained  to  deal  with  that  topic.  If  you  choose  a 
subject  and  settle  the  main  line  of  treatment,  all  you 
have  to  do  is  to  read  and  think.  Read  what?  Read 
anything,  anything  that  is  not  utterly  trivial.  Once 
fix  any  subject  in  your  mind,  and  allusions  to  it  will 
leap  out  from  the  most  unexpected  quarters.  I 
read  some  days  ago  an  essay  on  Ticonderoga,  by 
Pierre  Loti.  Never  having  read  anything  about  the 
place  before,  I  was  fascinated  with  the  freshness 
and  the  delicate  beauty  of  Loti's  descriptions,  and 
thought  I  should  like  to  know  more  of  it.  That  even- 
ing I  took  up  De  Morgan's  Budget  of  Paradoxes,  a 
book  which  never  fails  me,  one  of  those  books  that 
you  can  never  open  without  learning  something.  At 
the  page  I  opened  there  was  a  story  of  Ticonderoga. 
I  mention  this  simply  as  one  of  innumerable  experi- 
ences. How  often  one  reads  and  hears  essays  which 
have  a  germ  of  goodness.  There  is  a  thought  in 
them ;  there  are  perhaps  gleams  in  them.  But  they 
are  thoroughly  underworked ;  they  are  destroyed  for 
want  of  adequate  meditation. 

For  there  ought  to  be  a  margin  of  knowledge  as 
well  as  a  margin  of  time  for  work.     One  literary  man 

100 


THE    VALUE    OF    A   MARGIN 

said  to  another  that  he  had  to  go  through  a  great 
deal  of  reading  for  his  new  book;  so  much  matter 
that  seemed  likely  at  first  had  in  the  end  to  be  re- 
jected. "Yes,"  replied  his  friend,  "you  can  only 
walk  on  the  width  of  your  feet,  and  yet  you  want 
more  to  walk  on."  It  would  be  very  uncomfortable 
to  walk  sixty  feet  on  a  narrow  plank.  Yet  this  is 
what  many  people  are  doing.  There  is  no  margin 
in  their  knowledge.  There  are  men  who  one  evening 
get  an  introduction  to  Hegel  by  reading  a  chapter 
of  Dr.  Hutchison  Stirling.  The  next  day  they 
manage  to  work  into  print  their  confused  impression, 
and  talk  about  Hegel  as  if  he  had  been  their  master 
for  a  quarter  of  a  century.  The  trick  is  rarely  suc- 
cessful. Those  who  write  in  that  way  are  sure  to 
be  caught.  It  is  not  possible  to  mistake  what  is 
written  from  a  ripe  fulness  of  knowledge  from  the 
mere  quackery  of  hasty,  superficial,  pretentious  ig- 
norance. For  a  good  article  or  a  good  book  the 
author  should  have  twice  as  much  material  gathered 
as  is  ultimately  worked  in.  I  saw  it  said  the  other 
day  that  the  future  of  any  boy  passionately  fond  of 
reading  was  assured,  and  I  can  well  believe  it.  The 
day  comes  when  we  read  too  much  for  a  purpose — 
for  an  examination,  for  an  article,  for  a  book.  It  is 
well  to  spend  much  time  in  youth  reading  the  best 
with  no  ulterior  view.  All  comes  to  its  use  in  the 
end. 

We  should  give  ourselves  a  margin  of  time,  that 
we  may  not  waste  energy  in  hurry  and  flurry.     It 

101 


THE   KEY   OF   THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

is  proverbial  that  the  men  who  do  least  think  them- 
selves busiest.  If  you  want  a  bit  of  work  done  well 
and  done  promptly  you  go  to  a  man  who  seems  over- 
occupied.  Fussy  people,  people  who  undertake  more 
than  they  can  carry  through,  people  who  work  by 
spurts  and  fits  and  starts,  are  apt  to  spoil  their  lives. 
They  may  do  splendidly  for  a  time,  but  they  break 
down,  and  the  tortoise  comes  in  before  the  hare.  I 
cannot  bear  people  who  are  hurried,  who  have  no 
leisure  for  a  chat,  who  puff  and  steam  and  shriek  all 
the  time  they  are  working.  The  noisiest  engines  I 
know  of  are  those  of  the  very  worst  railway  in  this 
country. 

Archbishop  Tait  was  a  tremendous  worker,  quite 
as  great  a  worker  as  Bishop  Wilberforce.  The 
absence  of  fussiness  was  one  of  his  peculiar  charac- 
teristics. It  was  the  rarest  possible  thing  to  see  him 
in  a  hurry  about  anything.  "  This  total  absence  of 
fuss  and  flurry  used  to  deceive  his  guests  in  the  odd- 
est way.  I  remember  an  American  ecclesiastic  who 
was  staying  at  Lambeth  at  a  very  busy  time  asking 
me  on  the  second  or  third  morning  if  the  Archbishop 
was  holiday-making.  He  seemed  to  have  nothing 
particularly  to  do,  and  was  constantly  walking  in 
the  garden.  The  doctor  who  knew  him  best  ascribed 
to  this  steady  calmness  of  manner  and  movement  the 
fact  that  he  was  able  to  resist  so  long  the  dangers 
attaching  to  an  enfeebled  heart.  But  he  did  not 
adopt  his  manner  for  that  purpose.  It  was  as  a 
protest  against  the  excited  restlessness  that  is  so  com- 

102 


THE    VALUE    OF    A    MARGIN 

raon,  the  idea  that  a  busy  man  must  be  a  man  in  a 
chronic  state  of  perspiration. 

There  ought  in  every  life  to  be  a  margin  of  leisure, 
not  merely  for  rest,  but  for  the  possessing  of  one's 
soul.  The  busiest  man  ought  to  be  able  to  spend 
part  of  the  day  alone,  frequently  without  doing  any- 
thing. He  should  be  able  to  mix  with  pleasure  in 
quiet  society.  He  should  find  some  part  of  the  day 
to  give  to  those  at  home.  I  knew  a  business  man  in 
an  American  town  who  was  so  absorbed  in  his  busi- 
ness that  he  could  not  keep  away  from  it.  He  had 
a  charming  family,  and  he  came  back  to  dine  with 
them  every  evening  at  seven.  After  dinner  he  used 
to  go  back  to  his  office  and  work  till  eleven,  return- 
ing about  midnight  thoroughly  weary.  And  so  life 
went  on.  But  as  the  golden  sentence  has  it,  "  Life 
is  not  for  learning,  neither  is  life  for  working,  but 
learning  and  working  are  for  life." 

It  ought  perhaps  to  be  said  that  there  must  not 
be  too  much  margin  about  life.  Wastefulness  in 
money  matters  is  very  bad,  but  miserliness  is  infinitely 
worse.  A  man  may  be  very  careless  and  yet  keep 
his  soul,  but  if  he  is  too  careful  he  will  lose  his  soul. 
You  cannot  make  a  friend  of  a  miser.  A  miser  must 
live  and  die  without  love.  You  cannot  gain  the 
whole  world  and  keep  your  own  soul.  Life  should 
have  a  margin,  but  there  are  lives  which  are  nearly 
all  margin,  from  which  every  living  line  and  letter 
have  passed  away.  Neither  is  it  good  to  have  too 

103 


THE   KEY  OF  THE   BLUE  CLOSET 

much  leisure  and  too  much  money.  Again  and  again 
I  have  met  friends  of  the  late  James  Cotter  Morison, 
and  they  agree  that  none  of  his  writings  give  the 
faintest  impression  of  his  real  and  extraordinary 
powers.  They  account  for  this  by  saying  that  his 
circumstances  were  too  easy.  He  had  no  external 
pressure.  He  had  unlimited  time  on  his  hands,  and 
was  excessively  fastidious  in  style.  In  conversation 
he  showed  himself  the  master  of  almost  any  company, 
and  he  was  not  at  all  indolent.  Neither  did  he  at- 
tempt too  many  subjects.  What  he  did  has  its 
merits,  and  was  not  entirely  without  result,  but  it 
was  very  little  in  comparison  with  the  power  and 
culture  of  his  mind.  Not  too  much  margin,  then, 
but  some  margin  is  what  we  should  seek. 


104 


CHAPTER  XII 

SAILING   AGAINST    THE    WIND 

THE  late  Mr.  P.  G.  Hamerton,  as  many  will  remem- 
ber, was  much  addicted  to  sailing  on  French  rivers, 
and  here  and  there  liked  to  dwell  upon  the  analogies 
between  sailing  and  human  life.  Every  one,  or  at 
least  every  preacher,  has  more  or  less  used  nautical 
similes.  He  has  spoken  of  the  tossing  on  the  rough 
ocean,  which  is  life,  and  the  haven  of  rest,  which  is 
death.  He  has  compared  the  fair  wind  and  rippling 
sea  to  prosperity,  and  the  tempest  to  adversity.  I 
wish  to  write  something  about  beating  against  the 
wind,  which  is  so  familiar  an  experience  in  navi- 
gation. Every  properly  conducted  vessel,  so  the 
authorities  tell  us,  can  sail  against  the  wind.  Going 
against  the  wind  by  the  power  of  a  machine  is  oppos- 
ing one  force  by  another,  but  to  beat  to  windward  in 
a  sailing  vessel  is  a  test  of  skill.  It  means  that  the 
wind  is  not  resisted,  but  employed.  The  opposing 
force  continues,  but  the  opposition  is  called  into  aid. 
Now,  this  is  a  parable  of  life,  and  I  may  expatiate 
upon  it  for  a  little. 

Let  me  take,  for  example,  solitude.  One  of  the 
chief  aggravations  of  reverse  is  that  it  often  throws 
a  man  out  of  congenial  company,  and  dooms  him  to 
loneliness.  But  if  he  is  wise  he  will  take  the  loneliness 

105 


THE   KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

and  make  it  serve  him — use  it  so  that  it  shall  bring 
him  into  better  company  than  any  that  he  has  lost. 
I  met  the  other  day  an  old  college  companion  whom  I 
had  not  seen  for  many  years.  He  used  to  be  a  coun- 
try minister,  but  has  long  preached  in  Melbourne. 
We  talked  about  the  difference  between  the  country 
and  the  city,  and  the  desire  of  many  men  to  get  away 
from  the  one  into  the  other.  I  remarked  that  the 
isolation  of  the  country,  the  want  of  congenial  fellow- 
ship, was  deeply  felt  by  many  who  had  been  used  to 
the  most  perfect  of  friendships — those  between  fel- 
low-students. He  replied  that  he  had  never  experi- 
enced this.  In  his  country  charge  there  were  two  men 
who  satisfied  his  desire  for  society.  One  was  the 
miller  and  one  was  the  schoolmaster.  Both  were 
gifted  and  educated  men,  and  the  miller  especially 
had  a  mind  and  a  way  in  which  Carlyle  would  have 
delighted.  It  is  the  old  story.  We  crane  our  necks 
and  look  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  for  that  which  is 
beside  us.  In  nearly  every  place  perhaps  by  a  little 
trouble  one  may  turn  strangers  into  helpful  friends. 
Even  if  it  were  not  so,  even  if  there  were  exceptions, 
most  of  us  might,  and  ought  to,  find  in  our  own 
households  much  more  than  we  look  for.  It  is  neces- 
sary for  those  who  would  live  happily  together  that 
they  should  try  to  show  their  best  to  one  another. 
They  should  try  to  show  the  best  of  their  minds.  All 
things  should  be  in  common.  Every  pleasant  expe- 
rience, whether  it  be  of  books  or  of  life,  ought  to  be 
shared.  I  am  confident  that  existence  is  maintained 

106 


SAILING  AGAINST   THE   WIND 

at  a  much  lower  level  of  happiness  than  it  should  be, 
simply  because  those  who  are  bound  by  the  closest 
natural  ties  do  not  know  how  to  make  each  other 
happy — grudge  the  time  that  should  be  given  to  the 
arraying  of  the  soul.  Then  consider  how  many  pre- 
cious hours  are  wasted  by  merely  idle  talk.  Go  into 
a  club  and  see  men  aimlessly  gossiping  through  long 
afternoons.  Solitude  is  the  mother  country  of  the 
strong.  It  gives  time  for  reading,  for  study,  and  for 
labour.  If  it  is  used  in  these  ways,  then  we  can  sail 
against  the  wind.  Of  course,  it  is  often  used  differ- 
ently, just  as  a  man  ignorant  of  sailing  is  helpless  in 
the  midst  of  a  sea  agitated  by  a  steady  breeze,  and 
drifts  to  leeward,  the  unintelligent  victim  of  the 
great  natural  forces. 

Another  way  in  which  we  can  sail  against  the  wind 
is  making  good  use  of  bad  health.  Every  one  has 
observed  the  amazing  way  in  which  invalids  survive 
and  strong  men  go  down.  I  took  up  this  evening  the 
first  volume  of  Sydney  Dobell's  life,  and  read  again 
the  pathetic  story  of  his  early  married  life.  His 
wife,  always  delicate,  became  a  complete  invalid,  and 
seemed  on  the  verge  of  the  grave.  Many  pages  detail 
the  hopes  and  fears  of  her  anxious  husband.  As  it 
turned  out,  Sydney  Dobell  died  at  fifty,  and  his  wife 
vsurvived  him  for  many  years,  dying,  I  think,  when 
she  was  nearer  eighty  than  seventy.  I  knew  long 
ago  a  lady  so  delicate  that  every  time  one  parted 
from  her  it  seemed  like  a  final  leave-taking,  but,  so 
far  as  I  know,  she  is  alive  to-day.  On  the  other  hand, 

107 


THE   KEY   OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

I  call  to  mind  the  two  strongest  and  healthiest  men  I 
have  ever  known.  One  of  them  was  a  novelist,  the 
other  a  college  don.  Neither  of  them  ever  knew  what 
illness  was  till  they  were  close  upon  the  end.  The 
novelist  over-exerted  himself,  transgressed  every  law 
of  health,  and  was  struck  down  by  a  mysterious  dis- 
ease, to  which  he  succumbed.  The  college  don  could 
never  be  induced  to  take  care  of  himself  or  adapt  his 
clothing  to  the  weather.  One  day,  when  very  slightly 
clad,  he  went  to  a  boat-race  in  an  east  wind,  and  it 
killed  him.  I  have  read  of  a  physician  whose  health 
broke  down  so  completely  that  his  life  was  in  danger. 
He  took  himself  in  hand  with  the  same  care  as  he  was 
wont  to  give  to  his  patients,  and  with  perfect  success. 
He  took  care  in  small  things,  observed  the  rules  of 
health,  even  the  least  of  them,  avoided  dangers,  and 
became  well.  The  great  physicians  nowadays  insist 
upon  the  scrupulous  observance  of  small  rules.  No 
law  is  violated  with  impunity,  no  law  is  obeyed  with- 
out reward.  And  what  is  true  in  the  physical  sphere 
is  true  in  the  moral  and  spiritual  spheres.  By  care 
and  management  invalids  can  accomplish  much  good 
work.  They  must  not  work  too  long,  but  if  they 
work  regularly  and  concentrate  while  they  are  work- 
ing, they  will  make  no  contemptible  show  at  the  end. 
Again,  there  are  compensating  elements  for  cruel 
deprivations  if  we  will  look  for  them.  I  knew  an 
ardent  and  voracious  reader  whose  eyes  became  weak. 
He  was  allowed  to  read  two  hours  a  day,  and  he  told 
me  that  he  was  no  worse  off  than  in  days  when  he 

108 


SAILING  AGAINST   THE   WIND 

could  go  on  for  eight  hours.  The  limitation  made 
him  select  his  reading.  Great  readers,  if  they  will 
think  of  it,  will  discover  that  much  of  the  time  they 
spend  in  reading  is  practically  wasted.  They  read 
rubbish  or  they  read  inattentively,  and  straightway 
forget. 

The  same  law  holds  in  cases  of  discouragement. 
Moralists,  so  far  as  I  remember,  have  hardly  studied 
sufficiently  the  effect  of  prolonged  discouragement  on 
the  human  spirit.  It  acts  upon  some  natures  like 
poison.  To  go  on  doing  one's  best  year  after  year 
without  a  single  sign  of  prosperity  may  sap  the 
whole  strength  of  life,  leave  the  nature  without  hope, 
without  courage,  without  buoyancy,  without  the 
power  of  recovery.  Many  years  ago  I  heard  a 
preacher  say  that  success  was  a  very  good  thing.  "  I 
wish,"  he  said,  "  I  had  had  more  of  it.  I  should  have 
been  a  better  man."  Few  things  can  develop  well 
without  sunshine.  Growth  in  the  dark  is  apt  to  be 
distorted.  A  man  who  had  worked  for  nearly  twenty 
years  under  the  most  cruel,  oppressive,  and  dis- 
couraging circumstances  at  last  obtained  relief.  He 
told  me  that  long  years  after  his  change  to  happier 
circumstances,  he  used  to  be  visited  by  dreams  in 
which  he  was  taken  back  to  his  past  and  yoked  to  the 
old  weary  task.  He  wakened  with  horror  and  relief 
to  find  himself  a  comparatively  free  man.  Yet  with- 
out difficulty,  without  discouragement,  a  nature  never 
becomes  strong.  Sailing  against  the  wind  is  an  essen- 
tial part  of  education.  Without  it  the  faculties  are 

109 


THE   KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

never  exercised,  the  man  never  becomes  strong.  We 
all  know  people  who  cannot  bear  to  be  in  a  minority. 
They  must  have  behind  them  some  gust  of  popular 
feeling  before  they  can  develop  enthusiasm.  But 
strong  men  can  hold  on  and  be  patient,  and  make 
progress  even  when  things  seem  dead  against  them. 
They  know  their  own  mind,  and  go  on  calmly.  These 
are  the  true  leaders.  There  is  a  deep  truth  in  the  old 
saying  that  when  things  are  at  the  worst  they  always 
mend.  But  you  say,  when  do  you  know  that  the 
worst  has  come?  I  reply  that  there  is  a  moment  of 
sickening  misery  which  brings  its  own  message.  We 
know  then  that  any  change  must  be  a  change  for  the 
better.  And  there  are  changes  often  if  we  do  not 
faint,  changes  as  welcome  as  they  are  surprising. 
For  months  and  perhaps  for  years  we  do  not  see 
where  they  are  to  come  from.  We  do  not  know  per- 
haps that  they  are  coming  till  the  moment  of  their 
arrival.  But  they  do  come  to  the  stout  heart.  It  is 
wise,  then,  not  to  lay  plans  for  ten  years  ahead  on  the 
assumption  that  the  conditions  in  which  we  now  find 
ourselves  will  be  permanent.  It  is  wise  to  remember 
that  the  conditions  are  changing,  and  that  we  may 
find  ourselves  far  happier,  far  lighter  of  heart,  than 
We  had  dared  to  dream. 

Once  more,  poverty,  if  it  is  bravely  and  wisely 
borne,  may  greatly  better  us.  It  is  well  for  us  to 
have  the  complexity  of  things  reduced  to  simplicity. 
Once,  perhaps,  we  lived  in  a  little  room  and  paid  four 
shillings  a  week.  Now  we  are  in  a  mansion  which 

110 


SAILING   AGAINST   THE   WIND 

costs  £500  a  year.  Are  we  really  happier  in  the  man- 
sion than  we  were  in  the  small  room?  Could  we  go 
back  again  and  be  content  and  find  our  own  minds  a 
kingdom?  I  do  not  wish  to  cant — far  from  it.  If 
poverty  were  in  itself  a  desirable  thing  people  would 
not  struggle  so  hard  to  escape  from  it.  Poverty 
often  visits  us  most  severely  in  its  effect  on  those  we 
love.  The  blow  comes  very  near  the  heart  when  we 
cannot  give  to  some  poor  sufferer  the  alleviations 
which  might  give  her  a  chance.  All  this  is  very  true, 
and  yet  it  is  true  that  continued  prosperity  in  most 
cases  enervates,  that  the  stronger  virtues  do  not  de- 
velop themselves  when  everything  goes  smoothly  and 
easily,  that  all  sunshine  makes  the  desert.  Poverty 
may  serve  us  well  if  it  teaches  us  where  the  essence 
of  true  life  lies,  and  it  may  prepare  us  for  the  more 
worthy  use  of  riches.  We  may  beat  to  windward  in 
poverty.  When  we  no  longer  go  with  a  fair  wind 
and  have  to  tack  constantly  against  a  foul  one,  we 
may  cease  to  be  spoiled  children. 


m 


CHAPTER   XIII 

"OBSERVE  THE  FLIGHT  OF  YONDER  SOLITARY 
CROW  " 

WHEN  the  villain  of  the  old-fashioned  melodrama 
finds  his  antagonist  too  much  for  him,  he  suddenly 
points  upwards  during  a  pause  in  the  combat  and 
cries  out,  "  Observe  the  flight  of  yonder  solitary 
crow,"  or  words  to  that  effect.  The  unsuspecting 
victim  looks  up,  and  the  villain  takes  advantage  of 
his  defenceless  situation  to  plant  his  stage  sword  be- 
tween the  other's  arm  and  ribs. 

Robert  Houdin,  the  great  conjurer,  in  his  two 
most  entertaining  books,  The  Cheating  of  the  Greeks 
Unveiled,  and  the  Secrets  of  Conjuring  and  Magic, 
tells  us  that  this  is  precisely  the  principle  on  which 
conjuring  tricks  are  performed.  Houdin  was  the 
founder  of  the  modern  school  of  conjuring.  He  was 
full  of  inventive  genius,  and  discarded  contemp- 
tuously the  clumsy  tricks  of  what  he  called  the  false 
bottom  school.  So  great  was  the  reputation  he  ac- 
quired, that  the  French  Government  sent  him  on  a 
sort  of  roving  commission  to  Algeria,  in  order  that 
he  might  discredit  the  prestige  of  the  Marabouts, 
the  wonderful  workers  who  had  attained  extraor- 
dinary influence  over  the  Arabs  by  their  pretended 
miracles.  Houdin  was  not  above  the  use  of  in- 


"YONDER    SOLITARY    CROW" 

genious  mechanical  devices.  In  his  work  on  the 
Cheating  of  the  Greeks,  which  deals  mainly  with 
card  tricks,  he  tells  us  that  an  ingenious  swindler's 
instrument  is  a  snuff-box,  on  which  there  is  a  small 
medallion,  about  the  size  of  a  franc,  containing  a 
miniature  executed  with  considerable  art.  The 
players  naturally  observe  this,  and  sometimes  it  is 
passed  round  to  be  inspected.  When  the  game  has 
begun,  the  Greek  takes  a  pinch  of  snuff,  which 
enables  him  to  put  the  box  down  again  nearest  to 
him.  But  at  the  same  moment  he  has  pressed  an 
invisible  spring,  which  substitutes  for  the  miniature 
a  small  convex  glass,  from  which  he  derives  consid- 
erable profit.  In  fact,  when  the  Greek  has  the  deal, 
as  his  mirror  is  under  the  cards  he  gives  his  oppon- 
ent, they  are  reflected  in  it.  From  time  to  time  the 
Greek  restores  the  medallion,  and  offers  a  pinch  of 
snuff  to  his  victim.  But  all  such  contrivances,  he 
earnestly  insists,  are  quite  useless  without  dexterity. 
"  To  succeed  as  a  conjurer  three  things  are  essen- 
tial: first  dexterity,  second  dexterity,  and  third  dex- 
terity." There  is  needed  not  only  dexterity  of  the 
hand,  but  also  of  the  eye  and  the  tongue.  The  vast 
majority  of  conjuring  tricks  are  variations  of  the 
same  broad  idea — namely  to  cause  the  disappear- 
ance of  a  given  object,  and  to  make  it  reappear  in  a 
different  place  from  that  in  which  it  has  been 
ostensibly  put.  The  details  may  vary,  but  the 
principle  is  the  same.  Now  in  order  to  accomplish 
this  satisfactorily,  the  attention  of  the  audience 

113 


THE   KEY  OF   THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

must  be  diverted.  They  must  observe  the  flight  of 
yonder  solitary  crow.  So  long  as  the  eyes  of  the 
audience  are  upon  the  performer,  it  is  absolutely  im- 
possible to  move  the  hands  so  quickly  as  to  abstract 
or  to  replace  any  object  without  being  perceived. 
But  it  is  very  easy  to  do  this  unnoticed  if  the  audi- 
ence are  looking  another  way  at  the  time.  There- 
fore the  most  necessary,  as  it  is  the  most  difficult 
accomplishment  for  a  conjurer  to  acquire,  is  to 
divert  attention  from  himself.  It  will  not  be  suf- 
ficient to  ask  them  to  look  in  another  direction. 
They  will  suspect  the  trick,  and  look  on  all  the  more 
keenly.  According  to  Houdin  the  chief  requisite  is 
to  have  a  good  eye.  That  is,  the  performer,  by  an 
earnest,  convinced  gaze  in  a  particular  direction, 
will  draw  insensibly  the  eyes  of  others  with  him.  If, 
on  the  other  hand,  he  furtively  glances  at  the  hand 
which  is  performing  some  function  that  should  be 
kept  secret,  the  game  is  up.  It  is  because  so  much 
mental  training  and  adroitness  are  needed  for  con- 
juring, that  as  a  rule  explanations  of  how  tricks  are 
performed  do  not  help  the  ordinary  reader.  He  can 
make  no  use  of  the  instruction  until  he  has  acquired 
the  skill  to  use  it.  Nevertheless,  Houdin  told  so 
much  in  his  books  that  his  rivals  did  their  best  to 
limit  the  circulation,  and  I  believe  the  first  is  prac- 
tically unknown,  while  the  second  was  not  available 
till  it  was  translated  by  Professor  Hoffmann,  and 
published  by  Messrs.  Routledge. 

The  place  of  diversions  in  life  is  a  matter  of  no 


"YONDER    SOLITARY    CROW" 

small  moment,  and  as  usual  the  etymology  is  in- 
structive. Diversion  is  the  act  of  diverting  aside 
from  a  course,  turning  into  a  different  direction  or 
to  a  different  point  or  destination.  Very  soon  it 
passes  into  the  secondary  meaning  of  sport,  or  play, 
or  pastime;  that  which  diverts,  turns,  or  draws  the 
mind  from  care,  business,  or  study  thus  rests  and 
amuses. 

I  am  copying  from  the  Century  Dictionary, 
which  gives  the  following  quotation  from  Ad- 
dison :  "  We  will  now  for  our  diversion  entertain 
ourselves  with  a  set  of  riddles,  and  see  if  we  can  find 
a  key  to  them  among  the  ancient  poets."  Steele 
says :  "  The  necessities  of  hunger  and  thirst  were 
his  greatest  diversions  from  the  reflections  of  his 
lonely  condition."  There  is  a  third  technical  mean- 
ing. Diversion  is  the  act  of  drawing  the  attention 
and  force  of  an  enemy  from  the  point  where  the 
principal  attack  is  to  be  made.  Of  this  there  are 
many  illustrations  in  the  history  of  war.  What 
brought  the  fortunes  of  the  Camisarts  to  their  nadir 
was  a  trick  of  Montrevel.  He  gave  out  that  he  pro- 
posed travelling  in  his  coach  with  a  very  small  body- 
guard. Having  started  in  this  fashion,  he  man- 
aged to  join  his  army,  which  had  been  so  disposed 
as  completely  to  encircle  the  enemy.  Cavalier,  the 
brave  Camisart  General,  fell  into  the  trap.  He  and 
his  troops  were  hemmed  in  on  all  sides  by  an  enemy 
sixfold  their  number.  They  fought  the  ground  inch 
by  inch.  Five  hundred  were  killed,  and  not  one  was 

115 


THE  KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

taken  prisoner,  but  the    result   was    the   Treaty  of 
Nismes. 

It  is  not  my  habit  to  deal  with  political  issues  in 
these  letters,  but  it  may  safely  be  said  that  the  trick 
of  diversion  is  by  no  means  obsolete  among  our 
statesmen.  When  a  political  party  has  little  ac- 
counts which  it  is  inconvenient  to  settle,  there  is  a 
great  temptation  to  divert  attention  from  muddling 
and  blundering  to  something  new.  "  Observe  the 
flight  of  yonder  solitary  crow."  But  very  great 
dexterity  is  needed.  If  the  people  imagine  that  they 
are  being  hoaxed,  they  concentrate  their  observa- 
tion in  a  hostile  and  dangerous  manner.  One  of  the 
strangest  episodes  in  Mr.  Gladstone's  career  was  his 
appeal  to  the  people  in  1874.  The  Liberal  Gov- 
ernment had  not  been  doing  well.  A  spirit  of  uneasi- 
ness had  settled  down  into  a  condition  of  listless 
inaction.  The  bye-elections  went  badly,  and  the 
Premier  became  impatient  of  the  general  lethargy. 
Like  a  thunderbolt  came  the  news  that  there  was  to 
be  a  Dissolution,  and  that  Mr.  Gladstone  was  to 
appeal  to  the  constituencies  on  a  Budget.  There 
was  very  little  specification  of  other  measures  in  his 
manifesto,  but  the  Premier  promised  that  the  In- 
come-tax was  to  be  abolished,  that  assistance  was  to 
be  afforded  to  the  ratepayers,  and  that  the  advo- 
cates of  a  free  breakfast-table  were  not  to  be  for- 
gotten. The  voters  were  to  be  hurried  to  the  polls 
under  the  spell  of  the  proffered  boon,  and  everything 
besides  was  to  be  forgotten.  The  British  taxpayer 

116 


"YONDER    SOLITARY    CROW" 

at  that  time  did  not  feel  his  burdens  as  he  feels  them 
now.  When  shall  we  have  a  political  leader  promis- 
ing the  abolition  of  the  Income-tax?  Be  that  as  it 
may,  the  voters  of  1874  thought  they  had  found  out 
Mr.  Gladstone  trying  the  trick  of  the  solitary  crow. 
He  was  denounced  even  by  the  most  faithful  of  his 
own  friends,  and  the  General  Election  ended  in  dis- 
aster for  his  party.  The  moral  is  that  the  trick, 
while  it  sometimes  may  succeed,  is  very  dangerous. 
Its  whole  prospect  of  success  is  the  chance  that  the 
voter  may  unsuspiciously  follow  the  eyes  of  the 
wizard. 

But  diversion,  in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  word, 
plays  a  very  great  and  salutary  part  in  life.  There 
is  nothing  so  terrible  as  the  concentration  of 
thought  and  energy  in  one  channel.  Sometimes  a 
particular  subject  fastens  on  the  mind  with  a  ter- 
rible intensity.  It  lays  an  iron  and  immortal  grasp 
upon  the  spirit.  Night  and  day  the  victim  is  never 
free.  He  dreams  of  one  thing  by  night,  he  wakens 
to  it  in  the  morning,  all  the  day  it  grips  him  and 
refuses  to  let  go.  If  that  continues  long  enough 
the  end  is  madness.  The  domination  of  the  fixed 
idea,  to  the  exclusion  of  every  other  interest  in  life, 
is  a  form  of  insanity.  Sometimes  it  is  love,  or  rather 
the  exaggeration  of  love,  as  we  see  it  in  the  letters 
written  by  Keats  to  Fanny  Brawne  during  his  last 
illness.  Keats  was  certainly  mad  when  he  wrote 
them.  Sometimes  it  is  remorse,  but  remorse  can  very 
seldom  write  itself  out.  Sometimes,  as  in  the  case 

117 


THE  KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

of  William  Cowper,  it  is  religious  madness.  Cowper 
became  persuaded  that  an  injunction  to  suicide  and 
a  subsequent  sentence  of  condemnation  were  reve- 
lations from  heaven,  and  from  that  hour  he  lived  in 
his  own  conviction  a  doomed  man.  The  wonder" 
was  that  he  was  able  to  live  at  all,  but  what  soothed 
him  was  small  diversions  from  his  despairing 
thoughts.  He  fed  the  chickens,  he  was  continually 
employed  in  gardening,  and  talked  freely  about  his 
favourite  employment.  He  took  care  of  three 
leverets,  which  grew  up  as  tame  as  cats,  and  as  fond 
of  human  society.  He  resolved  to  be  a  carpenter, 
and  constructed  boxes,  tables,  stools,  besides  bird 
and  squirrel  cages.  He  exercised  much  of  his  in- 
genuity on  an  orange-tree  and  three  myrtles.  These 
suggested  a  greenhouse  which  he  built  with  his  own 
hands,  and  which  afforded  him  amusement  for  a 
longer  time  than  any  expedient  to  which  he  had  fled 
from  the  misery  of  having  nothing  to  do.  He  took 
to  reading  Greek  and  Latin,  and  translated  Homer. 
It  was  with  that  he  was  busy  till  within  two  years  of 
his  end.  During  these  years  he  translated  little 
Latin  poems  into  English,  or  English  poems  into 
Latin.  When  he  was  dying  the  physician  asked  him 
how  he  felt.  "  Feel,"  he  replied,  "  I  feel  unutter- 
able despair." 

In  the  ordinary,  as  well  as  in  the  extraordinary, 
way  of  life,  the  faculty  of  diversion  is  invaluable. 
It  is  often  particularly  useful  in  conversation.  I 
have  heard  of  a  great  business  man  who,  when  things 

118 


"YONDER    SOLITARY    CROW" 

became  unpleasant  in  a  discussion,  had  a  trick  of 
pulling  out  a  drawer.  In  this  drawer  he  kept  some 
rare  and  curious  objects.  He  would  select  one  and 
show  it,  and  the  talk  speedily  became  amicable.  Sir 
Arthur  Helps,  whose  writings  are  full  of  hard-won 
wisdom,  says  that  a  pleasant  story  will  do  more  than 
almost  anything  else  to  relieve  the  tension  in  per- 
sonal relations.  Animals  are  often  a  great  relief 
to  the  mind  too  busy  with  its  work.  The  legend 
of  St.  John  and  the  quail  will  be  remembered,  and 
the  Irish  saints  in  particular  found  great  delight  in 
pet  animals.  In  fact  to  this  the  new  feeling  about 
the  brute  creation  may  be  largely  traced.  It  is  also 
very  helpful  to  have  a  variety  of  studies.  In  her  life 
of  George  Grote,  Mrs.  Grote  tells  how  the  historian 
was  diverted  from  the  fond  attention  and  sustained 
energy  with  which  he  worked  at  his  Greece  by  an 
eager  interest  in  science.  She  was  at  first  alarmed, 
but  came  to  feel  that  the  diversion  was  salutary,  and 
certainly  it  enriched  Grote's  subsequent  work.  Con- 
genial scenery  is  a  mighty  stay  to  some  minds. 
There  are  those  who  can  live  complacently  in  any 
place,  however  hideous,  but  there  are  others  who 
simply  cannot.  If  they  are  balked  of  their  desire 
for  natural  beauty  of  the  kind  they  love,  they  cannot 
go  on.  Of  this  Winckelmann  is  a  striking  example. 
He  was  a  German  heart  and  soul,  and  in  a  certain 
sense  he  remained  a  German.  Even  when  he  went  to 
Italy  his  passionate  friendships  continued  to  be  with 
Germans.  But  the  scenery  of  Italy  was  the  breath 

119 


THE  KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

of  his  life.  Latterly  his  imagination  became  mor- 
bidly homesick,  and  he  actually  meditated  a  violent 
break  with  his  Roman  ties.  He  started  with  feverish 
impatience  on  his  journey  to  Berlin,  and  was  thor- 
oughly happy  till  he  got  to  Verona.  Scarcely  an 
hour  after  an  extraordinary  change  was  observed  in 
the  expression  of  his  countenance.  He  seemed  to  be 
overcome  with  a  spasm  of  horror  as  the  Alpine  world 
opened  before  him.  Suddenly  he  exclaimed  that  he 
would  then  turn  back  at  once,  and  though  he  went 
forward  to  his  death,  it  was  in  so  strange  a  temper 
of  mind  that  his  companion  thought  him  deranged. 
Friendship  is  a  great  diversion,  and  to  accomplish 
its  full  work  it  should  exist  between  human  beings  of 
different  opinions,  different  attainments,  and  differ- 
ent pursuits.  Live  too  much  in  the  circle  of  fellow- 
workers,  and  you  never  escape  the  pressure  of 
thought  and  work.  This,  I  have  no  doubt,  is  the 
secret  of  the  strange  and  apparently  incongruous 
associations  formed  by  many  of  the  most  gifted 
minds.  They  desired  to  escape  from  themselves  and 
their  prison-houses  of  toil,  they  sought  to  be 
recreated,  in  a  word  they  needed  and  obtained  diver- 
sion. 


120 


CHAPTER  XIV 

DRIVING    A    HOOP:    A    SUGGESTION    FOR 
CHRISTMAS 

MRS.  OLIPHANT  tells  us  in  her  Autobiography  that 
she  was  not  a  fluent  talker.  She  was  often  silent  in 
the  midst  of  animated  conversation.  But  she  had 
one  friend  who  made  her  and  every  one  else  talk. 
This  was  a  wise  and  kind  old  lady,  who  by  her  gentle 
suggestions,  her  pertinent  inquiries,  and  her  encour- 
aging looks,  unlocked  the  lips  of  every  one  she  met. 
Mrs.  Oliphant  says  that  the  incitement  given  by  this 
friend  was  very  like  driving  a  hoop.  The  compari- 
son is  not  unhappy.  I  am  qualified  to  judge,  for  I 
have  driven  a  hoop  with  a  very  young  companion  not 
so  many  years  ago  as  you  might  think.  The  hoop 
must  be  handled  very  tactfully  at  the  start,  but  when 
it  gets  into  the  swing  it  acts  of  itself,  requiring  little 
or  no  aid.  Most  of  us  have  known  hostesses  with  the 
invaluable  art  of  drawing  out  and  mingling  in 
friendly  and  interesting  talk  a  whole  company.  It 
is  a  very  rare  talent,  and  there  is  always  behind  it 
much  wisdom  and  unselfishness  and  sympathy. 

Sometimes  one  may  start  a  Difficult  conversational- 
ist for  the  mere  pleasure  of  hearing  him  talk.  In 
this  case  the  driving  of  the  hoop  is  in  a  manner 
selfish,  especially  in  a  dialogue.  I  have  read  that 

121 


THE   KEY   OF   THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

the  famous  Master  of  Trinity,  Dr.  W.  H.  Thomp- 
son, had  to  be  started  in  this  way.  He  was  a  very 
formidable  person.  His  snow-white  hair,  coal-black 
eyebrows,  and  parchment  complexion  awed  every 
spectator,  and  the  effect  was  increased  by  the  critical 
wrinkles  on  his  brow  and  the  inscrutable  coldness  of 
his  eyes.  Once  induced  to  speak,  however,  he  could 
say  the  most  brilliant  and  memorable  things.  Even 
when  he  was  ordinary,  which  sometimes  happened, 
his  words  borrowed  force  from  his  personality. 
That  personality  was  so  strong  as  to  turn  common- 
place into  epigram,  and  ordinary  sarcasms  into 
crushing  hits.  But  such  a  man  as  Thompson  was 
rather  a  talker  than  a  conversationalist.  He  used 
to  terrify  his  companions  by  the  way  in  which  he 
raised  his  brows  to  hear  them  when  they  ventured  to 
say  anything.  Jowett,  the  Master  of  Balliol,  was 
equally  daunting,  and  at  his  silent  breakfasts  in- 
flicted untold  sufferings  on  bashful  and  ingenuous 
youths.  But  there  were  those  who  knew  how  to  make 
Jowett  talk — how  to  drive  the  hoop. 

In  most  cases,  however,  driving  the  hoop  is,  espe- 
cially with  old  people,  a  distinct  triumph  of  altruism, 
for  the  talk  of  the  great  majority  revolves  happily 
and  safely  on  a  very  few  stories  and  on  a  very  few 
subjects.  All  Scotsmen  have  known  old  gentlemen 
whose  conversational  stock-in-trade  was  a  series  of 
stories  about  Dr.  Chalmers.  Very  often  a  con- 
tinental journey  in  youth,  with  just  a  spice  of  ad- 
venture, comes  to  the  front  in  later  years,  and  is 


DRIVING    A    HOOP 

'dwelt  upon  with  ever-increasing  delight  to  the 
speaker,  and  with,  it  must  be  confessed,  a  measure 
of  suffering  on  the  part  of  the  hearers.  More  weari- 
some still,  and  not  at  all  uncommon,  is  the  self -justi- 
fication of  old  people  who  have  not  been  quite 
successful,  or  who  have  fallen  into  what  may  be  con- 
sidered indiscretions.  In  her  powerful  little  story, 
A  Village  Tragedy,  Mrs.  Woods  has  rendered  with 
quick  sympathy  and  delicate  touches  of  humour  the 
character  of  Mrs.  Pontin,  the  aunt  of  her  heroine. 
Mrs.  Pontin  is  a  fine  specimen  of  the  Midland  rustic. 
She  was  very  conventional  and  respectable,  but  she 
had  married  James  Pontin  within  a  few  months  of 
her  first  husband's  death.  Ever  afterwards  her  ac- 
quaintances were  destined  to  hear  in  much  detail  the 
circumstances  which  had  led  to  this  breach  of  eti- 
quette. If  others  did  not  give  her  a  chance,  Mrs. 
Pontin  herself  moved  the  talk  towards  the  great 
theme.  When  her  niece  came  to  live  with  her  she  was 
initiated  thus — 

"Did  you  ever  see  your  Aunt  Susan?"  asked 
Mrs.  Pontin. 

"  No,"  answered  Annie,  "  but  I've  heard  tell  of 
her.  They  used  to  say  I  was  like  her.  She  went  off 
in  a  decline,  didn't  she?  " 

"  Yes,  she  was  Benny's  mother,  and  I  always  was 
that  fond  of  Benny.  If  it  hadn't  been  along  of  him 
and  my  hundred  pounds  as  I  couldn't  get  back  I 
don't  know  as  I  should  ever  ha'  married  Pontin." 

She  was  always  anxious  to  clear  herself  from  the 
123 


THE  KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

imputation  of  having  been  moved  to  her  second  mar- 
riage by  any  personal  partiality  for  the  bridegroom, 
and  that  it  should  be  recognised  that  she  acted 
throughout  under  the  pressure  of  stern  necessity. 
Conversely,  the  memory  of  any  youthful  triumph 
seems  to  strengthen  at  the  last.  The  details  of  the 
victory  are  recited  more  often  and  more  fondly. 
When  the  old  people  are  allowed  to  tell  their  own 
story,  they  often  listen  very  pleasantly  to  the 
talk  of  the  young.  With  the  young  the  difficulty  to 
be  overcome  as  a  rule  is  that  of  shyness,  and  often 
the  only  method  of  overcoming  it  is  to  give  oneself 
away  in  a  personal  confidence. 

But  the  power  of  driving  the  hoop  is  applicable 
to  other  things.  It  is  the  tritest  and  yet  nearly  the 
most  necessary  of  commonplaces  that  encourage- 
ment is  sorely  wanted  in  life.  There  is  very  little  of 
it ;  as  a  rule,  it  is  wholly  beneficial ;  it  is  a  gift  which 
every  one  may  impart.  Nothing  is  more  impressive 
than  the  immense  courage  and  patience  with  which 
humanity  bears  its  burdens.  Men  and  women  go 
through  lives  of  little  cheer,  much  sorrow,  and  un- 
broken toil,  without  a  word  of  complaint.  When 
Matthew  Arnold  retired  from  his  duties  as  an  inspec- 
tor, he  received  a  present  from  his  teachers.  In  re- 
plying he  laid  aside  completely  the  little  affectations 
in  which  he  sometimes  indulged,  and  spoke  from  the 
heart.  He  told  the  teachers  that  when  he  began  his 
work  he  was  oppressed  by  the  irksomeness  of  its 


DRIVING    A    HOOP 

"BZ. 

3uties,  and  felt  for  a  time  that  they  were  almost 
unsupportable.  But  he  met  daily  in  the  schools 
men  and  women  discharging  duties  as  irksome  as 
his,  and  less  well  paid.  He  saw  them  making  the 
best  of  it.  He  saw  the  cheerfulness  and  the  effi- 
ciency with  which  they  did  their  work,  and  he  asked 
himself  again,  "  How  do  they  do  it?  "  "  Gradually 
it  grew  into  a  habit  with  me  to  put  myself  in  their 
places,  and  try  to  enter  into  their  feelings,  to  rep- 
resent to  myself  their  life,  and  I  assure  you  I  got 
many  lessons  from  them."  There  are  silent  multi- 
tudes who  never  develop  to  their  true  beauty  and 
happiness  simply  for  lack  of  encouragement.  The 
case  of  M'Kay,  in  Marie  Rutherford's  Deliverance, 
comes  to  mind.  He  loved  his  wife,  who  would  have 
given  up  every  drop  of  blood  in  her  body  for  him, 
but  she  had  no  opinions  that  were  not  his,  and  he  was 
perpetually  irritated  by  having  before  him  an  en- 
feebled reflection  of  himself.  Happily  he  discovered 
his  mistake  before  it  was  too  late.  "  She  became  ill 
very  gradually,  and  M'Kay  began  to  see  in  the 
distance  a  prospect  of  losing  her.  A  frightful  pit 
came  in  view.  He  became  aware  that  he  could  not 
do  without  her.  He  imagined  what  his  home  would 
have  been  with  other  women  whom  he  knew,  and  he 
confessed  that  with  them  he  would  have  been  less 
contented.  He  acknowledged  that  he  had  been  guilty 
of  a  kind  of  criminal  epicurism;  that  he  had  rejected 
in  foolish,  fatal,  nay,  even  wicked  indifference  the 
bread  of  life  upon  which  he  might  have  lived  and 

125 


THE   KEY   OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

thriven.  His  whole  effort  now  was  to  suppress  him- 
self in  his  wife.  He  would  read  to  her,  a  thing  he 
never  did  before,  and  when  she  misunderstood,  he 
would  patiently  explain;  he  would  take  her  into  his 
councils,  and  ask  her  opinion;  he  would  abandon  his 
opinion  for  hers,  and  in  the  presence  of  her  children 
he  always  deferred  to  her,  and  delighted  to  acknowl- 
edge that  she  knew  more  than  he  did,  that  she  was 
right  and  he  was  wrong.  She  was  now  confined  to 
her  house,  and  the  end  was  near,  but  this  was  the 
most  blessed  time  of  her  married  life.  She  grew 
under  the  soft  rain  of  his  loving  care,  and  opened 
out,  not,  indeed,  into  an  oriental  flower,  rich  in  pro- 
found mystery  of  scent  and  colour,  but  into  a  blos- 
som of  the  chalk  down.  Altogether  concealed  and 
closed  she  would  have  remained  if  it  had  not  been 
for  this  beneficent  and  heavenly  gift  poured  upon 
her." 

There  are  those  who  encourage  and  exhilarate  by 
their  very  presence,  who  bring  warmth  and  light 
into  every  place  they  enter.  "  I  shall  never  forget 
the  smile  with  which  he  greeted  me  the  first  time  I 
ever  spoke  to  him,  more  than  six-and-twenty  years 
ago,  in  the  library  at  Ladywood.  I  have  no  doubt 
that  numbers  will  say  the  same  thing.  It  seems  to 
me,  as  I  look  back  upon  those  days,  that  the  life  to 
every  one  of  us  was  changed  and  exalted  by  an  ac- 
quaintance with  him.  Always  and  everywhere  he 
was  himself,  and  what  a  self  it  was."  Such  was  the 
testimony  borne  by  the  author  of  John  Inglesant  to 

126 


DRIVING    A    HOOP 

an  early  friend.  Then  how  much  a  word  will  do. 
Over  thirty  years  one  man  recollects  how  another 
said  to  him  in  a  crowded  street,  "  That  is  very  strik- 
ing. I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  telling  me 
that." 

A  word  of  heartening  from  a  schoolmaster  in 
childhood  will  be  remembered  when  a  thousand 
things  apparently  much  more  important  are  lost  in 
the  azure.  A  word — how  much  it  may  mean! 
Bishop  Fraser,  of  Manchester,  was  one  of  the  most 
radiant  natures  in  the  world.  When  he  died  his 
friend  Lord  Lingen  bore  this  testimony :  "  Both 
before  and  after  he  became  a  Bishop  he  not  unfre- 
quently  stayed  at  my  house;  and  I  really  can  say 
without  exaggeration  that  the  very  sight  of  him  had 
the  effect  of  sunshine  both  on  the  servants  and  our- 
selves. If  ever  there  was  a  sociable  and  sympathetic 
man  he  was  one,  pleasantly  inquisitive,  and  ready  to 
talk  to  any  one.  "  Which  was  the  maid  who  cooked 
that  nice  dish?  "  said  he  one  morning  after  he  had 
read  prayers  to  us  all,  referring  to  something  he  had 
praised  at  dinner  the  day  before."  I  might  pursue 
this  train  indefinitely,  but  I  turn  to  a  practical 
suggestion. 

When  Christmas  approaches  we  all  think  about 
presents.  Many  of  us  have  not  very  much  to  give. 
Many  do  not  care  for  presents  of  the  ordinary  kind. 
We  are  satisfied  with  our  possessions.  What  every 
one  values  in  a  present  is  its  fitness,  the  kind  thought 
of  remembrance  which  it  embodies.  Why  should  we 

127 


THE   KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

not  this  Christmas  send  out  a  batch  of  kind,  affec- 
tionate, and  encouraging  letters?  This  at  least  is 
within  the  power  of  us  all,  and  who  knows  what  hap- 
piness we  might  give,  what  cheer,  what  strength, 
what  hope  ?  We  can  call  to  mind  by  a  little  thinking 
friends  and  acquaintances  with  whom  life  has  passed 
but  roughly  during  the  year.  Write  to  the  friend 
far  away  who  is  fighting  a  hard  battle,  and  tell  him 
what  you  think  of  his  constancy.  Write  to  the  sick 
friend  who  fancies  herself  of  no  use  in  the  world, 
and  tell  her  that  her  life  matters  much  to  you. 
Write  to  the  author  whose  book  you  have  liked. 
Send  no  advice — there  is  a  great  deal  too  much  ad- 
vice in  the  world — send  encouragement,  words  of 
recognition,  of  gratitude,  of  affection,  of  admira- 
tion, and  send  such  words  especially  to  those  who  are 
living  through  a  time  of  great  stress  and  trial.  Your 
letter  may  decide  the  issue  of  the  conflict. 

When  we  die  I  suppose  most  of  us  will  be  found 
to  have  cherished  a  very  few  things.  When  the 
desk  is  opened  the  possessions  that  have  perhaps 
mattered  most  will  be  discovered.  Then  there  will 
be  surprises.  In  the  life  of  Hugh  Price  Hughes  we 
are  told  that  he  kept  very  few  letters,  but  in  search- 
ing through  his  desk  his  wife  came  upon  one  from 
Dr.  Jenkins.  Mr.  Hughes  after  a  fierce  controversy 
sent  in  his  resignation  to  the  President  of  his 
Church.  Dr.  Jenkins  wrote  an  affectionate  and  ear- 
nest dissuasion,  beseeching  him  not  to  take  that  step. 
Very  likely  this  letter  meant  more  to  Mr.  Hughes 

128 


DRIVING   A  HOOP 

than  any  of  the  costly  gifts  he  received  and  de- 
served. If  I  were  to  covet  any  honour  of  authorship 
it  would  be  this — that  some  letters  of  mine  might  be 
found  in  the  desks  of  my  friends  when  their  life 
struggle  is  ended. 


129 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE    HOUSE    OF    


To  see  interesting,  characteristic,  and  individual 
houses,  you  must  go  to  a  village  or  a  country  town. 
It  is  pleasant  to  visit  the  scene  of  a  novel,  and 
chose  out  the  homes  of  the  different  characters. 
Whether  Mr.  Hardy  confirms  me  or  not,  I  am  sure 
that  I  discovered  in  Marnhull  the  birthplace  of  Tess. 
When  you  live  in  a  suburb  it  is  much  more  difficult 
to  people  the  different  residences.  In  fact  imagina- 
tion alone  cannot  do  it.  You  must  stay  some  years 
in  the  place,  and  gradually  gather  facts  and  experi- 
ences. Then  as  things  grow  familiar,  you  find 
yourself  giving  certain  houses  names.  So  I  have 
found  it  in  a  suburb  which  no  curious  mortal  can 
ever  find  out.  There  is  something  very  depressing 
in  long  rows  of  featureless,  uniform  buildings,  but 
when  you  understand  that  they  are  all  homes  in 
name  at  least,  the  aspect  of  things  is  changed.  You 
begin  even  to  love  the  little  villas  rented  from  £20 
to  £30  a  year.  In  some  cases  they  are  the  homes  of 
the  disappointed,  the  lonely,  and  even  the  ill-deserv- 
ing. In  other  cases  there  is  within  the  humble  walls 
all  the  radiance  of  youth  and  love  and  hope.  It  is 
terrible  to  be  without  a  home,  like  the  people  one 
meets  occasionally  on  the  Continent.  They  are 

130 


THE   HOUSE   OF.  

mostly  childless  couples,  who  have  become  intensely 
selfish.  They  tell  you  that  they  fled  from  the  grey 
skies  and  cold  winds  of  England.  By  and  by  you 
discover  that  they  ran  away  from  their  responsibili- 
ties, and  that  as  time  goes  on  they  hate  the  thought 
of  returning  to  them.  They  live  the  most  idle  and 
the  most  profitless  lives  that  can  be  imagined,  and 
they  deserve  their  miserable  deaths.  One  day  they 
are  found  sick  and  frightened  by  the  waiter.  They 
pass  away  in  a  crowded  hotel  to  the  disgust  of  the 
landlord,  who  will  smuggle  out  their  dead  bodies  by 
night.  Their  money  must  go  to  somebody.  Who- 
ever receives  it  is  heartily  glad,  and  not  at  all  thank- 
ful. They  are  unmissed  and  unmourned,  and  who 
can  say  that  their  end  is  not  well  merited? 

There  are  in  our  suburb  abodes  of  gloom  as  well 
as  places  of  joy,  but  I  will  not  say  much  about  the 
former.  One  house  I  call  the  House  of  Many  Sor- 
rows. It  was  built  some  twenty  years  ago  by  a 
prosperous  city  merchant.  He  had  not  lived  in  it 
six  months  before  there  came  a  great  crisis  in  his 
affairs.  He  went  to  his  man  of  business  and  told 
him  that  he  must  have  an  advance  of  £10,000  for 
a  week.  This  would  enable  him  to  tide  over  his  diffi- 
culties. The  money  was  refused,  whereupon  the  man 
took  out  a  revolver  and  shot  himself  dead.  Very 
soon  the  widow  and  family  disappeared.  Tenant 
came  after  tenant,  but  none  stayed  more  than  a  few 
months,  and  every  family  that  inhabited  the  house 
was  visited  with  a  heavy  stroke  of  fate.  I  could  tell 

131 


THE   KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

some  of  the  stories  if  it  were  not  for  the  danger  of 
identification.  How  it  has  fared  with  the  occupants 
of  the  house  during  the  last  five  or  six  years  I  do 
not  know,  but  up  till  that  time  something  ailed  it. 
The  place  was  cursed. 

We  had  at  one  time  the  House  of  the  Old  Lady 
with  the  Knitting  Needles.  It  was  a  very  pretty 
place,  but  nobody  lived  in  it  long,  for  it  was  haunted. 
There  was  nothing  very  terrible  about  the  ghost,  but 
she  always  appeared.  You  went  to  sleep  in  a  certain 
room  and  wakened  to  find  beside  you  an  old  lady 
placidly  knitting.  When  you  spoke  to  her  she  went 
away — surely  the  gentlest,  quietest,  and  least  for- 
midable of  ghosts.  But  the  tenants  did  not  like  her. 
There  was  great  and  increasing  difficulty  in  letting 
the  house  (I  myself  was  strongly  warned  against 
it),  and  now  it  has  been  thrown  down  and  replaced 
by  flats. 

Another  cottage  with  a  garden  and  a  high  wall 
I  name  the  House  of  Good  Talk.  It  was  so  once 
upon  a  time,  when  it  was  inhabited  by  an  editor  who 
was  both  scholar  and  gentleman.  He  has  been  dead 
many  years.  He  was  a  bachelor,  always  cheerful, 
and  eminently  social,  though  he  had  enough  to  de- 
press him.  He  suffered  from  the  double  drain  of  a 
wasting  lung  and  an  expensive  weekly  paper.  The 
journal  he  established  himself,  and  carried  through 
deep  waters  to  the  appearance  but  not  the  reality  of 
success.  This  editor,  indeed,  fancied  that  he  had 
achieved  a  great  triumph  when  he  brought  the  loss 

132 


THE    HOUSE   OF 


down  to  £40  a  week.  No  man  I  ever  knew  more 
intensely  enjoyed  good  talk.  Let  it  be  observed  that 
I  say  good  talk,  and  not  a  good  talk.  Dr.  Johnson 
never  could  have  said  "  Sir,  we  had  a  good  talk." 
Nobody  spoke  in  that  manner  in  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury. What  he  said  was  "  Sir,  we  had  good  talk," 
though  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  could  not  be  made 
to  understand  the  distinction.  Well,  the  talk  at  this 
editor's  house  was  extraordinarily  good.  Gener- 
ally speaking,  I  have  found  the  most  pleasant  con- 
versation to  be  dialogue,  but  our  host  had  a  per- 
sonality so  vivid  and  sympathetic  that  he  brought 
everybody  in.  No  doubt  he  selected.  He  liked 
young  men  best,  and  he  chose  companions  who  had 
common  interests.  So  it  turned  out  inevitably  that 
the  talk  was  shoppy,  but  I  like  shoppy  talk  provided 
it  is  my  shop,  as  in  this  case  it  happened  to  be.  On 
a  summer  day  we  would  gather  in  the  garden,  and 
you  might  then  hear  the  news  you  were  most  inter- 
ested in,  along  with  plenty  of  brilliant  but  not  ill- 
natured  comment.  Our  host  was  very  particular  to 
exclude  bitterness  and  scandal.  He  was  equally 
scrupulous  in  his  abhorrence  of  flattery.  That  de- 
testable individual,  the  Second  Fiddle,  was  never  al- 
lowed to  play  in  his  presence.  It  is  long  ago  now, 
but  it  was  a  great  honour  and  privilege  for  me  to 
have  some  share  of  the  talk  in  those  days,  and  I 
sometimes  stop  at  the  gate  and  look  through  and 
see  the  little  lawn  peopled  by  kind  ghosts. 

There  is  another  home  which  I  call  the  House  of 
133 


THE   KEY   OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

Perfect  Hospitality.  How  can  you  explain  the 
secret  of  making  a  house  pleasant  to  every  one  who 
enters,  or  perhaps  I  should  say  to  every  one  with 
the  smallest  right  to  enter?  The  Human  Mosquito 
has  no  right  to  enter  any  house.  You  may  find  out 
by  scientific  observations  whether  you  are  likely  to 
meet  him,  and  shun  the  place  as  you  would  shun  a 
plague.  Do  you  not  know  the  human  mosquito;  the 
man  who  is  always  rubbing  you  in  the  wrong  way, 
who  persists  in  reminding  you  of  things  you  would 
give  a  year  of  your  life  to  forget,  who  knows  ex- 
actly where  your  sore  places  are  and  makes  for 
them?  I  never  met  him  at  this  house,  but  that  is 
not  the  whole  story.  There  are  hosts  and  hostesses 
who  have  the  gift  of  selecting  pleasant  guests,  but 
their  guests  do  not  show  at  their  finest  when  they 
have  been  secured.  Perhaps  the  secret  is  a  woman's 
kindness  and  a  woman's  tact.  The  true  test  of  a 
lady  is  her  quality  as  a  hostess.  When  the  guest 
feels  that  he  is  welcome,  that  he  is  considered,  that 
he  is  in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  phrase  at  home,  one 
may  be  sure  that  a  very  friendly,  a  very  observant, 
and  a  very  thoughtful  mind  has  been  at  work.  Ten- 
nyson's welcome  to  Maurice  is  a  very  pretty  thing, 
especially  pretty  when  it  is  turned  into  Latin,  and, 
as  everybody  knows  the  English,  I  may  give  a  few 

lines  of  the  translation — 

"  Non  mordax  aderit  lingua  cubantibus 
Sed  sermo  modicus  vinaque  mollia, 
Dum  te  pica  loquax  murmure  garrulo , 
Mulcet  sub  trabe  pinea." 


THE   HOUSE  OF 


A  plain  little  villa  I  call  the  House  of  the  Suc- 
cessful Children.  The  father  and  mother  are  most 
respectable,  but  not,  so  far  as  one  can  see,  in  any 
way  extraordinary.  But  their  children  have  tri- 
umphed marvellously  in  various  fields  of  life.  They 
have  been  careful,  industrious,  loyal,  and  they  have 
swept  the  prizes.  We  all  talk  about  them,  and  we 
all  wonder.  How  is  this  accounted  for?  Clever  peo- 
ple are  often  blessed  with  stupid  sons.  Parents  who 
have  done  their  very  best  to  train  their  children  have 
sometimes  the  unspeakable  misery  of  seeing  them  go 
wrong.  Every  now  and  then,  however,  you  hear  of 
boys  coming  out  and  distinguishing  themselves  in 
every  worthy  way.  You  cannot  account  for  their 
talent.  It  does  not  appear  to  be  hereditary,  but 
there  is  the  fact,  and  the  homely,  sensible  fathers 
and  mothers  are  glorified  in  their  offspring.  I  can- 
not explain  it,  but  George  Eliot  says  somewhere  that 
a  mother's  love  is  at  first  merely  an  expansion  of 
the  animal  existence.  At  the  beginning  it  merely 
extends  the  range  of  self.  But  in  after  years  it  can 
only  continue  to  be  a  joy  on  the  same  terms  as  other 
long-lived  love — that  is,  by  much  suppression  of  self 
and  much  patience.  Perhaps  it  is  because  the  par- 
ents, commonplace  though  they  seem,  have  the  wis- 
dom to  make  the  training  of  their  children  their  su- 
preme care.  Under  a  homely  guise  great  qualities 
may  be  hidden,  and  the  children  find  them  out.  Per- 
haps, also,  it  is  good  for  children  that  they  should 
be  brought  in  contact  from  the  very  beginning  with 

135 


THE  KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

the  stern  realities  of  life,  that  they  should  know  what 
it  costs  their  parents  to  make  the  path  clear  for 
them,  and  that  they  should  thus  be  filled  with 
the  eager  desire  not  to  be  unworthy  of  their  good- 
ness. 

Then  there  is  the  House  of  the  Absent,  inhabited 
by  a  lady  and  her  two  children.  We  thought  for  a 
long  time  that  she  was  a  widow.  She  is  very  cheer- 
ful and  very  good,  and  regards  her  girls  with  an 
obvious  and  delightful  fondness  and  pride.  But  the 
truth  is  that  her  husband  is  incurably  insane.  She 
visits  him  every  week  in  the  asylum,  and  has  done 
so  for  some  five  years  past.  Her  chief  trouble  is 
that  he  has  forgotten  her  children,  and  does  not 
always  recognise  her.  The  family  rarely  mention 
him.  They  seem  to  feel  a  kind  of  shame  because  he 
is  mad.  Yet  they  are  such  bright,  cheerful  people 
that  you  hardly  ever  come  under  his  shadow  in  the 
house,  though  you  are  startled  now  and  then  to  find 
how  much  he  is  with  them.  The  youngest  child,  who 
is  about  ten  years  old,  was  playing  once  in  my  house 
with  other  children.  They  started  the  game  of 
wishing,  and  the  older  people  tried  to  guess  what 
the  children  had  been  coveting.  This  child,  feeling, 
I  think,  that  it  was  not  polite  to  leave  me  in  the  dark, 
said  she  did  not  mind  telling  me,  as  she  had  wished 
the  same  thing  ever  so  many  times,  and  it  never  came 
true.  I  accepted  the  confidence  thoughtlessly,  mak- 
ing a  joke  of  it,  and  the  poor  girl  told  me,  with  a 
little  awkward  shyness,  but  quite  unaffectedly  and 

136 


THE   HOUSE   OF 


without    show    of   emotion,   "  I  wished    my    father 
might  get  better." 

One  of  the  most  delightful  places  I  visit  is  the 
House  of  the  Man  with  Many  Friends.  As  a  rule 
men  who  have  many  friends  have  no  friends,  but  in 
this  case  the  friendships  have  lasted  over  a  long  life- 
time, and  many  of  them  are  temporarily  severed  by 
death.  So  there  is  no  infidelity.  There  is  only  the 
opening  of  the  heart  to  take  one  in  when  another 
goes.  My  friend  is  now  beginning  to  be  an  old  man, 
and  he  has  had  a  rarely  fortunate  experience.  From 
the  very  beginning  of  his  career  he  has  been  thrown 
into  contact  with  the  cleverest  men  in  London.  If 
he  has  a  fault  it  is  that  he  is  too  much  intolerant 
of  dulness.  He  belongs  heart  and  soul  to  that  society 
which  admits  a  man  if  he  can  talk  well  and  brightly 
and  is  a  decent  fellow,  but  will  admit  no  one  else, 
however  much  money  and  however  many  titles  he 
may  possess.  My  friend  began  with  Leigh  Hunt 
and  his  circle,  knew  John  Leech  intimately,  was  ac- 
quainted with  Dickens  and  Thackeray,  and  has  gone 
on  cultivating  the  fellowship  of  their  successors, 
such  as  they  are,  and  many  other  people.  He  is  a 
repository  of  traditions  about  the  old  literary  Bo- 
hemia, and  he  is  as  keenly  interested  in  the  new  as  in 
the  old.  He  can  enrich  his  conversation  with  sudden 
and  delightful  memories  and  parallels  from  the  past 
in  a  way  which  is  quite  unique,  so  far  as  I  know. 
Personally,  I  am  not  skilled  in  conversation,  but 
pride  myself  on  a  certain  knack  in  asking  questions. 

137 


THE  KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

In  this  way  much  has  come  to  me,  and  many  things 
that  were  not  asked  for.  You  might  not  care  for 
them,  but  I  take  pleasure  in  thinking  that  John 
Leech,  when  he  died,  left  behind  him  forty  pairs  of 
trousers  and  forty-six  pots  of  cayenne  pepper.  I 
like  to  know  that  Professor  Cowell  bought  one  boot 
at  a  time,  and  that  an  elastic-sided  boot.  When  the 
past  is  recalled  and  the  dead  are  spoken  of,  it  should 
be  in  a  spirit  of  kindly  tenderness  and  charity,  and 
sucji  is  the  happy  atmosphere  of  the  House  of  the 
Man  with  Many  Friends. 

And  then  there  is  the  House  of  the  Lost  Child, 
whom  I  last  saw  with  a  crimson  flower  burning  on  her 
breast. 


138 


CHAPTER  XVI 

POTATOES   OR  CABBAGE? 

MARK  RUTHERFORD  tells  us  that  when  he  was  a 
Unitarian  minister  he  dined  once  after  a  sermon  with 
an  elderly  gentleman  and  his  wife.  "  They  might 
botli  be  about  sixty-five,  and  were  of  about  the  same 
temperament,  pale,  thin,  and  ineffectual,  as  if  they 
had  been  fed  on  gruel.  We  had  dinner  in  a  large 
room  with  an  old-fashioned  grate  in  it,  in  which  was 
stuck  a  basket  stove.  I  remember  perfectly  well 
what  we  had  for  dinner.  There  was  a  neck  of  mut- 
ton (cold),  potatoes,  cabbage,  a  suet  pudding,  and 
some  of  the  strangest-looking  ale  I  ever  saw — about 
the  colour  of  lemon  juice;  but  what  it  was  really 
like  I  do  not  know,  as  I  do  not  drink  beer.  I  was 
somewhat  surprised  at  being  asked  whether  I  would 
take  potatoes  or  cabbage,  but  thinking  it  was  the 
custom  of  the  country  not  to  indulge  in  both  at  once, 
and  remembering  that  I  was  on  probation,  I  said 
cabbage."  My  point  to-day  is  that  we  are  all  too 
apt  to  follow  Mark  Rutherford's  example,  and  to 
say  cabbage,  or,  if  not,  to  say  potatoes,  whether 
we  might  have  cabbage  and  potatoes,  we  acquiesce 
in  the  "  or,"  and  are  foolishly  content  with  one  or 
the  other. 

I  admit  at  once  that  there  are  real  alternatives  in 
139 


THE   KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

life.  Forcible  and  homely  expressions  of  this  truth 
are  at  everybody's  hand.  You  cannot  eat  your  cake 
and  have  it,  is  a  vulgar  way  of  saying  that  the  palm 
is  not  to  be  obtained  without  the  dust.  It  is  part  of 
the  wisdom  of  life  to  learn  that  we  must  concentrate. 
It  is  given  to  no  one  to  be  great  at  everything.  One 
eminent  writer  tells  us  that  it  is  hardly  possible  for 
one  person  to  be  perfectly  master  of  two  languages. 
To  attain  the  first  rank  in  any  pursuit,  be  it  a  busi- 
ness, or  a  study,  or  a  game,  one  must  forego  pre- 
eminence or  even  eminence  in  other  pursuits.  With 
all  our  striving  the  limits  of  life  remain,  and  are  not 
to  be  removed.  What  is  true  of  the  individual  is  true 
of  the  nation.  A  people  that  goes  mad  on  sport  is 
a  people  that  cannot  hope  to  retain  the  lead  when 
other  nations  become  earnest. 

I  know  also  that  we  must  mournfully  and  con- 
stantly acquiesce  in  exclusions  that  seem  to  have  no 
ground  in  nature  or  in  necessity.  We  have  to  choose 
many  times  between  potatoes  and  cabbage.  It  seems 
as  if  the  inhospitable  universe  might  have  bidden  us 
welcome  to  both.  A  man  and  a  maid  come  together 
in  the  freshness  of  life  and  commence  the  struggle 
hand  in  hand.  The  battle  is  hard,  but  the  opposing 
forces  give  way  at  last,  and  the  little  summit  on 
which  both  hearts  were  set  is  attained.  And  then? 
Why,  then  one  is  removed,  one  who  had  done  her 
part  and  more  to  gain  the  victory,  but  is  not  left 
to  enjoy  it.  And  because  she  is  gone  it  is  no  victory 
for  the  other.  He  would  rather  a  thousand  times  be 

140 


POTATOES    OR    CABBAGE? 

at  the  bottom  of  the  hill  again  with  her  hand  in  his. 
Or  a  man  sets  his  soul  on  winning  the  prizes  of  life 
for  his  son.  All  his  heart  is  wrapped  up  in  the  boy. 
He  has  no  ambitions  except  for  the  lad's  success. 
What  comes  to  him  in  the  way  of  triumph  is  dear 
just  for  the  son's  sake.  As  it  happens  he  takes  the 
prizes.  After  a  certain  time  the  honours  come 
easily.  Then  the  son  dies,  and  life  is  turned  into  an 
empty  mockery,  without  meaning,  without  savour. 
Why  should  such  things  be?  We  cannot  answer  one 
of  a  thousand.  We  do  not  see  why  in  each  case  the 
dream  should  not  have  embodied  itself  in  reality.  It 
would  have  been  nothing  wonderful,  for  all  the  street 
is  full  of  living  people,  and  one  thinks  that  many  of 
them  could  have  been  more  easily  spared.  But  all 
that  is  left  us  is  to  bow  our  heads  and  acquiesce  as 
best  we  may.  No  lesson  is  so  burnt  in  upon  the 
observer  of  human  life  as  that  of  the  nothingness  of 
splendour  and  the  iron  reality  of  suffering. 

Still  the  fact  remains  that  much  of  our  life  is  in 
our  own  hands,  and  that  we  acquiesce  much  too 
lazily  in  exclusions  that  were  not  needful.  For 
"  or "  we  might  many  times  read  "  and."  If  we 
did  our  lives  would  be  a  great  deal  more  happy,  and 
a  great  deal  more  useful.  I  will  put  down  roughly 
a  few  illustrations,  mostly  from  facts  that  are  fresh 
in  my  memory  Let  me  begin  by  saying  that  is  no 
reason  why  charm  of  manner  should  not  be  added 
to  any  gift,  physical  or  intellectual.  This  is  the 
way  to  make  room  for  the  gift.  All  through  life, 

141 


THE  KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

and  especially  at  first,  we  have  to  confront  resist- 
ance. It  is  wise  to  choose  the  line  of  least  resistance 
if  it  is  in  the  way  to  our  goal.  It  is  courtesy  above 
everything  that  will  make  way  for  us,  that  will  win 
recognition  for  a  gift,  and  a  place  for  its  possessor. 
Why  should  clever  men  be  so  deficient,  as  they  often 
are,  in  manner?  Some  are  inveterate  poseurs,  and  if 
there  be  anything  more  sickening  than  pose  I  do 
not  know  it.  Others  are  what  is  termed  brusque, 
which  invariably  describes  rudeness  and  insolence. 
I  might  go  through  the  catalogue,  but  it  is  not  need- 
ful. Gracious  manners  are  always  acceptable,  even 
in  the  humblest.  When  a  man  of  great  name  and 
genius,  or  a  woman  of  great  beauty  possesses  them, 
they  lead  captives  at  their  will.  There  is  nothing 
which  wise  guardians  will  more  carefully  attend  to 
in  the  education  of  the  young  than  their  training 
in  good  manners.  Who  can  tell  how  much  the  noto- 
rious lack  of  good  manners  in  the  British  people  has 
done  to  win  for  them  the  hatred  of  the  world? 

Why  should  we  say  capable  or  honest?  Why 
should  not  a  man  be  both  honest  and  capable?  A 
friend  of  mine  advertised  lately  for  a  man  to  take  up 
a  difficult  but  very  promising  and  profitable  line  of 
business.  The  qualifications  required  were  somewhat 
unusual,  and  I  must  not  indicate  them.  He  did  not 
expect  many  answers  to  his  advertisement,  but  he 
chose  his  medium  well,  and  had  seventeen.  I  think  it 
is  quite  possible  that  the  majority  of  those  who  were 
fit  for  the  work  and  willing  to  undertake  it  applied. 


POTATOES    OR    CABBAGE? 

At  his  request  I  examined  the  testimonials,  and  one 
candidate  stood  very  far  above  the  rest;  in  fact,  the 
testimonials  to  his  capacity  were  of  a  very  striking 
kind,  and  his  own  letters  proved  him  to  be  a  man  of 
rare  intelligence  and  foresight.  The  puzzle  was  that 
such  a  man  should  be  content  with  such  a  salary  as 
was  offered,  though  it  was  not  a  small  salary,  and 
there  were  good  prospects  of  an  increase.  But  why 
was  he  not  in  a  better  position?  We  made  some  pri- 
vate inquiries,  and  at  last  came  upon  his  track.  He 
was  all,  and  perhaps  more  than  all,  his  certificates 
said  in  point  of  ability,  but  he  had  shown  himself  at 
one  great  crisis  of  his  life  to  be  utterly  untrustworthy. 
Every  effort  had  been  made  to  give  him  a  fresh 
chance,  but  it  was  too  late.  My  friend  groaned  and 
said,  Why  should  it  not  be  possible  to  find  a  man  who 
is  both  honest  and  capable?  The  other  applicants 
had  good  characters,  but  there  was  no  indication  in 
them  of  the  exceptional  capacity  which  the  situation 
required. 

Pursuing  a  similar  line,  why  should  not  a  man  be 
both  brilliant  and  industrious?  To  be  very  bright, 
very  clever,  very  quick  gives  a  man  a  great  advant- 
age in  life.  To  begin  with,  these  qualities  show 
themselves  at  first  sight  and  on  every  occasion.  Most 
people  and  many  of  the  best  show  but  poorly  till  you 
know  them.  They  cannot  readily  reveal  their  gift. 
Among  strangers  they  are  stupid  and  awkward.  It 
is  only  in  time  that  the  perception  of  their  excel- 
lence dawns  upon  you.  But  the  brilliant  man  is 

143 


THE  KEY   OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

master  everywhere,  and  master  at  once.  Now  if  he 
combined  with  his  brilliancy  the  patience,  the  rigour, 
the  self -discipline  necessary  for  the  best  use  of  his 
powers,  there  is  nothing  he  might  not  accomplish. 
How  rarely  does  one  find  it  does!  The  man  calcu- 
lates upon  his  speed.  He  allows  himself  indulgences 
and  holidays  because  he  can  so  well  make  up  for  lost 
time.  So  the  old  story  is  enacted,  and  the  hare  is 
caught  up  by  the  tortoise.  "  It  is  his  misfortune," 
said  a  wise  man  to  me,  "  that  he  is  very  clever.  He 
always  presumes  upon  his  cleverness,  and  therefore 
never  does  himself  justice,  and  in  the  end  does  no 
more  than  might  be  done  by  a  stupid  person  who  is 
diligent." 

If  a  man  has  good  thoughts,  is  there  any  reason 
why  he  should  not  learn  how  to  express  them?  Style  is 
the  medium  through  which  thoughts  can  reach  the 
dull  ear  of  the  world.  Yet  how  many  able  men  re- 
duce their  influence  to  nothing  simply  because  they 
will  not  master  the  instrument  of  expression.  I  know 
one  of  very  brilliant  and  subtle  mind,  and  of  great 
accomplishment,  a  man  who  has  the  ambition  of 
leadership,  and  perhaps  has  the  power  to  lead.  But 
he  cannot  write.  He  writes  in  such  a  way  that  he 
loses  half  his  readers  at  the  end  of  the  first  para- 
graph, and  nearly  another  half  at  the  end  of  the 
second  paragraph.  His  style  has  almost  every  kind 
of  vice  that  can  belong  to  style.  In  addition,  he  has 
the  great  moral  defect  of  not  perceiving  and  keeping 
in  view  what  may  be  said  by  his  opponents.  Whether 

144. 


POTATOES    OR    CABBAGE? 

a  man  is  answering  opponents  or  not,  he  ought  al- 
ways to  have  his  eye  upon  them,  to  be  considering 
what  they  might  say  in  answer  to  what  he  is  saying. 
The  consequence  is  that  though  I  generally  agree 
with  him,  he  exasperates  me  so  much  by  his  method 
of  argumentation  that  at  the  end  of  his  articles  I 
wish  I  were  on  the  other  side.  How  often  has  one 
heard  a  preacher  of  excellent  elocutionary  gifts  who 
had  simply  nothing  to  say,  or  a  preacher  full  of 
thoughts,  but  with  every  possible  awkwardness  of 
manner  and  expression!  Why  should  these  things 
be? 

"  She  has  beautiful  hair,"  said  a  very  plain-spoken 
old  Englishman,  "  but  I  think  of  the  head  beneath 
the  hair."  Why  should  he  not  think  about  both? 
There  is  no  reason  why  a  pretty  woman  should  be  un- 
cultivated and  stupid.  There  is  no  reason  why  a 
learned  woman  should  be  untidy  and  frowsy.  Beauty 
and  accomplishment  were  meant  to  go  together,  and 
yet  if  all  stories  are  true,  many  women  presume  upon 
their  youth  and  beauty,  and  neglect  the  mind,  while 
others  who  are  careful  of  the  mind  are  so  contemptu- 
ous of  the  personal  graces  that  they  discourage  and 
prejudice  and  retard  the  reasonable  advance  of 
womanhood.  I  am  happy  to  think  that  this  is  be- 
coming a  thing  of  the  past.  If  one  reads  the  his- 
tory of  the  French  Salons,  one  sees  that  the  power 
and  charm  of  womanhood  are  independent  of  years. 
It  was  said  of  Madame  De  Sable,  as  of  some  other 
remarkable  Frenchwomen,  that  the  part  of  her  life 

145 


THE   KEY  OF   THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

which  was  richest  in  interest  and  results  was  that 
which  was  looked  forward  to  by  most  of  her  sex  with 
melancholy  as  the  period  of  decline.  When  between 
fifty  and  sixty  she  had  philosophers,  wits,  beauties, 
and  saints  clustering  round  her.  What  was  the 
elixir  which  gave  her  this  enduring  and  general  at- 
traction? No  doubt  the  well-balanced  development 
of  her  mental  powers.  This  gave  her  a  comprehen- 
sion of  varied  intellectual  processes,  and  a  tolerance 
for  varied  forms  of  character  which  is  even  rarer  in 
woman  than  in  man.  We  have  all  known  examples 
of  this.  We  have  seen  how  wit  keeps  beauty  alive, 
and  how  powerless  the  spell  of  beauty  soon  becomes 
when  there  is  neither  character  nor  intellectual  force 
behind  it. 

One  thing  more.  It  is  the  combination  of  qualities 
rather  than  their  singularity  which  gives  attraction 
and  influence.  One  and  one  in  this  region  do  not 
make  two;  they  make  five.  Respectable  gifts  used 
with  ceaseless  industry  will  do  far  more  to  make  life 
efficient  and  happy  than  brilliant  gifts  where  there 
is  no  industry.  From  one  point  of  view  it  is  our  duty 
to  make  up  our  minds  for  necessary  exclusions.  That 
is  one  great  part  of  the  wisdom  of  life,  but  a  part 
no  less  great,  though  often  sadly  forgotten,  is  to 
determine  against  the  unnecessary  exclusion,  to  af- 
firm our  right  to  potatoes  and  cabbage. 


146 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE    MAN    WITH    A    COLD 

EVERYBODY  has  a  cold  at  times,  and  makes  more  or 
less  fuss  about  it,  but  there  are  unfortunate  beings 
with  whom  the  intervals  between  colds  contract  until 
they  hardly  count.  The  unfortunate  individual  who 
belongs  to  this  family  may  be  called  the  Man  with  a 
Cold.  His  association  with  a  cold  is  his  main  char- 
acteristic, the  principal  and  nearly  permanent  fact 
of  his  existence. 

His  lot  is  hard,  for  in  the  first  place  he  cannot 
speak  of  his  trouble,  or  if  he  does  speak,  he  is  re- 
fused a  hearing.  His  fellow-creatures,  even  the  near- 
est and  dearest,  let  him  know  at  last  that  they  will 
have  no  more  of  it.  This  is  a  peculiar  affliction,  and 
strikes  against  all  that  is  reasonable,  for,  truly  ap- 
prehended, there  is  nothing  so  enthralling  as  the 
Romance  of  a  Cold.  To  write  this  romance,  or  to 
tell  it — to  go  from  the  root  o£  the  matter  to  the  end 
of  it — to  trace  in  all  its  picturesque  and  moving  detail 
the  origin,  progress,  and  issues  of  a  cold,  is  one  of 
the  highest  and  noblest  employments  of  the  human 
faculties.  But,  as  I  have  said,  people  will  not 
stand  it.  They  will  endure  much  boredom,  but  not 
that. 

The  Man  with  a  Cold,  always  so  full  of  his  subject, 
147 


THE   KEY  OF   THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

is  compelled  to  be  silent  on  it.  I  have  before  me  a 
very  sentimental  essay  on  Sentimentalism,  from  Avhich 
I  will  quote  a  passage,  acknowledging  that  I  have 
taken  some  liberty  with  the  writer's  words :  "  It  is 
true  that  we  have  all  much  in  common ;  but  what  we 
have  most  in  common  is  this — that  we  are  all  isolated. 
Man  is  more  than  a  combination  of  passions  common 
to  his  kind.  Beyond  them  and  behind  them  an  inner 
life,  whose  current  we  know  we  have  within  us,  flows 
on  in  solitary  stillness.  It  lies  deep  beneath  all 
flashes  on  the  surface.  Just  as  the  fancy  of  men  in 
dreams  traverses  earth  and  heaven,  he  cannot  get 
away  from  one  weary  weight — the  presence  of  a  cold, 
of  a  centre  round  which  all  revolves — so  is  the  soli- 
tude of  a  cold  the  only  tangible  idea  we  can  assign 
to  it.  Habits  change,  convictions  alter,  even  tastes 
die  away,  but  the  cold,  by  a  mysterious  exercise  of 
its  vitality,  moves  on  from  phase  to  phase,  from 
gloom  to  sunshine,  from  activity  to  repose." 

But  it  is  only  the  proprietor  of  a  cold  who  fully 
appreciates  its  romantic  quality.  A  cold  does  man- 
ifest itself  to  unsympathetic  outsiders,  but  it  must 
be  owned  that  the  manifestation  takes  a  very  prosaic 
form.  The  voice  becomes  hoarse  and  uncertain.  It 
is  even  as  the  voice  of  Mr.  Raddle,  which,  when  it 
reached  Mr.  Sawyer's  party,  appeared  to  proceed 
from  beneath  distant  bedclothes.  I  knew  a  preacher 
labouring  under  a  tremendous  cold,  who  managed  in 
some  fashion  to  deliver  a  discourse  in  Edinburgh. 
At  the  close  an  apparently  sympathetic  elder  pre- 
148 


THE    MAN    WITH    A    COLD 

sented  himself,  and  the  following  conversation  took 
place : 

Elder:  "  This  is  most  trying,  most  trying." 

Preacher  (endeavouring  to  be  cheerful)  :  "  Oh,  not 
so  bad  as  all  that.  I  do  not  feel  any  the  worse  for 
it." 

Elder  (severely)  :  "  I  meant  most  trying  for  the 
listeners." 

Coughing  cannot  be  described  as  an  agreeable 
sound;  it  is  particularly  irritating  when  two  people 
in  the  same  house  have  colds  at  the  same  time,  and 
cough  in  responses,  "  hoasts  encountering  hoasts," 
as  the  "  Scottish  Probationer  "  would  put  it.  Then 
you  understand  the  meaning  of  the  observant  moral- 
ist who  declared  that  the  only  faults  which  could  not 
be  forgiven  were  those  which  could  not  be  helped. 
Sneezing  and  blowing  the  nose  are  exercises  which 
by  no  stretch  of  fancy  can  be  described  as  poetical, 
and  the  same  may  be  said  of  mufflers  and  red  flannel. 
Nowadays,  people  are  so  scared  about  their  health, 
and  so  apprehensive  of  infection,  that  the  Man  with 
a  Cold  may  expect,  if  he  lives  long  enough,  to  be 
shut  up  in  a  solitary  cell. 

Perhaps,  however,  the  chief  grievance  of  the  Man 
with  a  Cold  is  against  his  doctors.  They  will  not 
trouble  themselves  about  a  cold.  If  they  are  sent 
for  they  treat  it  with  contempt.  The  Man  with  a 
Cold  has  nothing  to  say  against  the  gallant  and  noble 
efforts  made  by  physicians  to  find  the  means  of  com- 
bating the  graver  diseases.  But  he  cannot  help 

149 


THE   KEY   OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

thinking  that  some  doctors  might  devote  themselves 
to  grappling  with  troubles  that  are  considered  un- 
important. I  venture  to  say  that  the  doctor  who 
could  cut  short  a  cold  would  make  a  royal  income, 
and  earn  the  most  sincere  gratitude.  As  it  is,  the 
Man  with  the  Cold  knows  exactly  how  things  are  go- 
ing to  be.  It  bursts  upon  him  suddenly  that  he  has 
caught  a  cold,  and  the  whole  programme  of  the  next 
three  or  four  weeks  unfolds  itself :  the  various  stages, 
the  steady  progression  from  head  to  the  throat,  and 
from  the  throat  to  the  lung,  the  ineffectual  and  dis- 
agreeable mixtures,  the  dulling  of  every  energy  and 
faculty,  the  great  weight  added  on  to  the  load  of 
life.  It  must  all  be  gone  through,  and  physicians, 
as  Captain  Bunsby  observed,  are  in  vain. 

But  there  is  more  to  say,  and  here  it  is  going  to 
be  said  almost  for  the  first  time.  The  Man  with  a 
Cold  in  this  country  and  this  century  is  compelled 
to  be  silent  on  his  very  deepest  convictions.  He  is 
the  victim  of  a  persecution  in  which  all  sects  and  all 
parties  join.  Dr.  Clifford  and  the  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury,  Mr.  Lloyd-George  and  Mr.  J.  G.  Talbot, 
Mr.  Chaplin  and  Mr.  Asquith,  Mr.  Walkley  and  Mr. 
Henry  Arthur  Jones,  will  all  unite  as  one  man  to 
crush  him  if  he  dares  to  speak.  The  Man  with  a 
Cold  has  to  keep  his  secret  well,  and  to  fare  on  in  a 
desperate  silence  when  he  is  all  on  fire  to  declare  him- 
self. He  knows  very  well  that  colds,  neuralgia,  and 
most  of  the  ills  that  invest  him,  arise  from  the  great 
modern  curse  of  Fresh  Air.  The  other  day  my  friend 

150 


THE   MAN   WITH   A   COLD 

Dagonet  threw  out  a  dark  hint,  but  even  his  courage 
will  not  suffice  for  the  revealing  of  the  truth.  What 
is  to  happen  to  the  Man  with  a  Cold  if  he  says 
frankly  that  he  objects  to  open  windows.  Nowadays 
all  accept  the  saying  that  you  should  sit  with  open 
windows,  and  sleep  with  open  windows,  and  travel 
in  railway  carriages  with  open  windows.  Venti- 
lation is  universally  popular  with  the  British  people. 
Churches  must  be  ventilated,  halls  must  be  ventilated, 
private  dwelling  must  be  ventilated.  The  late  Mr. 
Spurgeon  used  to  boast  that  when  he  was  a  young 
minister  he  broke  a  window  in  his  chapel  to  let  in 
fresh  air.  His  deacons,  who  no  doubt  were  men  with 
colds,  had  strongly  objected  to  ventilation,  but  Mr. 
Spurgeon  had  his  way,  and  as  time  went  on  everybody 
agreed  with  him.  Nowadays  people  with  colds,  even 
those  whose  colds  have  passed  into  pleurisy,  pneu- 
monia, and  consumption,  are  told  that  the  cure  is 
in  fresh  air,  that  they  should  be  out  in  the  open  as 
much  as  possible.  So  much  is  this  idea  being  pressed, 
that  institutions  are  built  for  the  treatment,  and  I 
should  not  be  surprised  if  at  last  we  are  told  that  it 
is  best  to  live  night  and  day  in  the  open  air.  This 
would  mean  the  abolition  of  dwelling-houses  and  of 
rent,  and  of  mankind.  Now  the  Man  with  a  Cold 
thinks  he  knows  very  well  that  fresh  air  is  the  enemy. 
He  has  tried  it — compelled  to  do  so  against  his  own 
convictions  by  dominating  domestic  influences.  He 
has  slept  with  the  windows  open  while  he  had  a  cold, 
and  the  cold  has  developed  into  pleurisy  or  some- 

151 


THE   KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

thing  else.  The  development,  indeed,  has  promised 
a  very  complete  cure,  a  full  cure  for  all  ills,  too 
complete,  however,  for  his  taste.  He  knows  exactly 
what  happens  on  a  railway  journey  in  the  winter- 
time. Some  one  in  the  carriage  says  with  a  smile  of 
winning  sweetness,  "  You  do  not  object  to  one  window 
open?  "  The  Man  with  a  Cold  ruefully  assents.  He 
objects  with  all  his  heart  and  soul,  but  what  is  the  use? 
Sometimes  his  companion  graciously  adds :  "  If  we 
had  two  windows  open  there  might  be  a  draught,  but 
one  window  can  do  no  harm."  The  Man  with  a  Cold 
thinks  that  one  window  does  the  mischief  effectually. 
Sometimes,  and  perhaps  oftener  now  than  ever,  both 
windows  are  taken  down,  and  a  sharp  current  does  its 
deadly  work.  It  does  not  matter  very  much,  per- 
haps, whether  one  window  is  open  or  two.  If  the 
Man  with  a  Cold  had  his  will  he  would  close  all  win- 
dows for  ever;  he  would  construct  windows  in  the 
manner  of  the  intelligent  ancients,  so  that  by  no  pos- 
sibility could  they  ever  be  opened. 

This  suppression  of  honest  opinion,  thinks  the 
Man  with  a  Cold,  is  fatal  to  the  true  interests  of  the 
country.  There  has  been  a  great  clamour  about  de- 
clining trade,  and  about  the  competition  of  foreign 
nations,  especially  of  the  United  States.  Innumer- 
able speeches  have  been  delivered  on  the  subject,  and 
will  yet  be  delivered.  There  are  those  who  preach 
the  nostrum  of  Protection.  There  are  others  who 
preach  the  nostrum  of  Free  Trade.  The  Man  with 
a  Cold  is  not  a  Protectionist.  He  knows  better  than 

152 


THE   MAN    WITH   A   COLD 

that.  Nor  does  he  consider  that  Free  Trade  will 
amend  our  ills.  The  country  may  remain  a  Free 
Trade  country  and  be  beaten  by  foreign  nations. 
What  is  the  true  cure?  The  Man  with  a  Cold  knows. 
He  has  travelled  on  the  Continent  and  in  America. 
He  is  fully  prepared  to  believe  that  the  Continent  is 
ahead  of  us  in  enterprise  and  vitality,  and  especially 
prepared  to  hear  that  the  Americans  are  beating  us 
on  every  hand,  for  on  the  Continent,  although  in  his 
judgment  things  are  getting  worse,  there  still  lingers 
a  wholesome  dislike  of  open  windows  and  fresh  air. 
When  the  Man  with  a  Cold  first  visited  the  Continent 
few  windows  opened.  Now  the  English  have  brought 
in  their  notions,  and  there  is  some  change.  Still, 
especially  in  railway  carriages,  it  is  not  as  it  is  in 
England.  In  a  long  Continental  journey  the  Man 
with  a  Cold  generally  finds  his  fellow-passengers,  if 
they  are  not  Englishmen,  as  much  afraid  of  the  open 
window  as  he  is  himself.  It  is,  however,  in  the  United 
States  that  the  Man  with  a  Cold  is  truly  happy.  He 
is  happy  everywhere:  in  hotels,  in  private  houses,  in 
churches,  in  public  halls.  But  he  is  supremely 
blessed  in  railway  carriages.  Everywhere  there  are 
great  draughts  of  hot,  stuffy,  reviving  air.  But  es- 
pecially in  the  railway  carriages  is  the  sentiment  of 
the  great  American  people  clear  and  noble.  Not 
even  a  John  Bull  could  induce  them  to  allow  a  window 
to  be  opened.  It  positively  adds  to  his  pleasure  that 
he  has  English  companions  who  profess  themselves 
sorely  discomfited  and  complain  of  headaches.  All 

153 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  BLUE   CLOSET 

along,  right  from  New  York  to  New  Orleans,  he  can 
travel  without  a  breath  of  fresh  air.  In  these  cir- 
cumstances his  spirits  rise,  he  recalls  all  his  anec- 
dotes and  tells  them  with  infinite  zest ;  he  is  ready  with 
his  repartees,  he  radiates  benevolence  from  every 
feature.  These  are  his  high  days  of  revel  and  luxury. 
He  is  fortified  against  all  dangers  and  equal  to  any 
exertion.  His  voice  is  loud,  and  clear,  and  sweet. 
He  wishes  this  might  go  on  for  ever ;  like  the  gentle- 
man in.  Browning's  poem  (modified  slightly),  he 
would  "  ride  for  ever,  for  ever  ride."  There  is  no 
sign  that  the  American  people  have  modified  their 
view  on  these  subjects,  and  so  long  as  they  hold  to 
them  the  Man  with  a  Cold  knows  that  their  influence 
must  become  more  and  more  paramount.  He  reads 
about  ten  per  cent,  tariffs,  and  a  hundred  per  cent, 
tariffs,  and  retaliatory  tariffs,  but  these  things  do 
not  touch  him.  If  fresh  air  could  be  kept  out  he  is 
convinced  that  imports  and  exports  would  come  all 
right.  What  is  wrong  is  that  so  many  of  our  people 
are  working  at  half  their  power,  depressed  by  neural- 
gia and  colds.  If  this  could  be  prevented,  then  the 
energy  of  the  American  people  would  be  transferred 
to  this  island,  and  we  should  go  clear  ahead. 

For  these  and  for  other  reasons  the  life  of  the  Man 
with  a  Cold  is  on  the  whole  subdued.  He  has  no 
compensations  to  speak  of.  After  a  time  he  becomes 
resigned,  and  he  may  even  get  to  see  the  comic  side 
of  the  business.  He  watches  for  the  dwindling  in- 
tervals that  separate  his  cold.  These  are  more  and 

154- 


THE   MAN   WITH   A   COLD 

more  enjoyable,  but  blessings  brighten  as  they  take 
their  flight.  He  has  no  hope  of  reversing  the  strong 
current  of  popular  opinion.  Not  until  the  nation 
has  come  to  sleeping  in  the  open  air  through  Febru- 
ary or  March,  not  until  the  population  has  been  re- 
duced by  one-half,  will  there  be  any  real  improve- 
ment. 


155 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  DUAL  LIFE:  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE, 
GEORGE  ELIOT,  AND  JANE  AUSTEN 

ALL  of  us  live  two  lives,  the  life  of  reality  and  the 
life  of  imagination.  This  may  make  either  for  hap- 
piness or  for  misery.  If  we  are  at  peace  in  the  life 
of  reality  notwithstanding  whatever  mars  and  ham- 
pers it,  we  may  revel  in  the  dreams  of  what  may  come 
in  a  fuller  existence.  But  if  the  real  life  has  brought 
us  little  but  pain,  if  our  circumstances  and  our  toils 
are  merely  irksome  and  humiliating,  if  we  have  missed 
sufficing  love  and  friendship,  then  there  is  a  schism 
which  may  embitter  and  wear  out  the  spirit  in  those 
who  are  weak,  and  sadden  it  even  in  the  strongest. 
Rousseau's  reflections  are  worth  quoting.  "  The 
recollection  of  the  different  periods  of  my  life  led  me 
to  reflect  upon  the  point  which  I  had  reached,  and  I 
saw  myself  already  in  my  declining  years  a  prey  to 
painful  evils,  and  believed  that  I  was  approaching  the 
end  of  my  career  without  having  enjoyed  in  its  ful- 
ness scarcely  one  single  pleasure  of  those  for  which 
my  heart  yearned,  without  having  given  scope  to  the 
lively  feelings  which  I  felt  it  had  in  reserve,  without 
having  tested  or  even  sipped  that  intoxicating  pleas- 
ure which  I  felt  was  in  my  soul  in  all  its  force,  and 
which  for  want  of  an  object  always  found  itself  kept 

156 


THE    DUAL   LIFE 

in  check  and  unable  to  give  itself  vent  in  any  other 
way  but  through  my  sighs.  How  came  it  to  pass 
that  I,  a  man  of  naturally  expansive  soul,  for  whom 
to  live  was  to  love,  had  never  been  able  to  find  a  friend 
entirely  devoted  to  myself,  a  true  friend — I  who  felt 
admirably  adapted  to  be  one  myself?  How  came  it 
to  pass  that  with  feelings  so  easily  set  on  fire,  with  a 
heart  so  full  of  affection,  I  had  never  once  been  in- 
flamed with  the  love  of  a  definite  object?  Consumed 
by  the  desire  of  loving  without  ever  having  been  able 
to  stifle  it  completely,  I  saw  myself  approaching  the 
portals  of  old  age  and  dying  without  having  loved. 
...  It  seemed  to  me  that  destiny  owed  me  something 
which  it  had  not  yet  granted  me.  Why  had  I  been 
born  with  delicate  faculties  if  they  were  to  remain 
unemployed  to  the  end?  " 

It  is  very  hard  to  know  the  real  life  of  a  human 
being,  and  much  more  difficult  to  understand  their 
life  in  dreams.  Many  keep  their  secret  because  they 
will  not,  and  many  because  they  cannot,  reveal  it. 
But  perhaps  something  may  be  said  of  the  three 
great  women  novelists,  Charlotte  Bronte,  George 
Eliot,  and  Jane  Austen.  Whatever  may  be  said  about 
the  capacities  of  women,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  in 
fiction  they  have  attained  their  highest  distinction, 
and  it  is  hard  to  believe  that  a  woman  can  write  a 
novel  without  showing  something  of  her  own  heart. 


157 


THE   KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 


Of  Charlotte  Bronte  we  know  as  much  as  of  any 
other.  Her  life  has  been  studied  with  such  minute- 
ness of  investigation  that  almost  every  line  of  her 
most  secret  and  intimate  letters  has  been  recovered. 
She  wrote  in  her  books  with  a  passion  and  a  freedom 
hardly  to  be  paralleled.  But  in  her  case  the  life  of 
reality  and  the  life  of  imagination  were  in  sharp  and 
bitter  contrast.  She  herself  was  born  to  the  poverty 
and  conventionality  of  a  Yorkshire  vicarage.  There 
was  indeed  much  that  was  unconventional  in  her  sur- 
roundings, and  her  father  retained  his  strong  Irish 
individuality  through  all  repression.  But  for  all 
that,  Charlotte  Bronte  had  her  narrow  sphere  to  fill, 
and  was  oppressed  by  its  limitations.  It  is  not  too 
much  to  say  that  she  loathed  and  despised  most  of 
the  people  she  encountered.  For  the  bigoted  evan- 
gelical parsons,  beginning  with  Carus-Wilson  and 
going  on  to  the  curates  in  Shirley,  she  had  hardly 
even  a  touch  of  relenting.  The  purse-proud,  vulgar, 
hard  manufacturing  magnates  who  employed  her  as 
a  governess  were  equally  detested  and  scorned.  She 
was  the  truest  of  sisters,  and  her  sisters  were  worthy 
of  her  love.  But  her  brother  trampled  out  the  last 
spark  of  love  in  her  heart  before  he  died.  She  was 
devoted  to  her  father,  but  was  never  under  any  illu- 
sions about  him.  Such  possible  lovers  as  offered  were 
impossible,  and  though  Charlotte  Bronte  was  too  wise 
to  contemn  affection,  and  prized  her  friendships  with 

158 


THE    DUAL    LIFE 

good  women,  she  found  none  amongst  them  all  to 
whom  she  could  speak  her  heart.  Once,  and  once 
only,  in  her  youth  her  dream  turned  near  reality. 
She  found  in  her  Brussels  teacher,  not  a  man  whom 
she  fell  in  love  with,  but  a  man  whom  she  might  have 
loved.  But  though  her  heart  was  hot  with  the  dream, 
she  came  back  to  the  stifling  cares  and  burdens  of 
Haworth,  and  in  all  points  anxiously  fulfilled  her 
duty  as  a  clergyman's  daughter.  Shy,  demure,  re- 
served, punctilious — all  this  she  was  to  her  neigh- 
bours, and  nothing  beyond. 

But  when  we  read  her  books,  we  see  that  her 
dream  life  was  utterly  different.  Her  heroines  are 
all  of  them,  to  use  Rousseau's  phrase,  "  children  of 
Melchizedek."  They  are  orphans,  free  to  take  their 
own  course,  free  to  work  and  to  find,  if  it  may  be,  the 
glory  of  love.  When  love  comes  they  have  no  tyran- 
nical relatives  to  consult:  the  world  has  no  claims 
upon  them.  For  Charlotte  Bronte  the  ideal  life  was 
that  of  a  man  and  woman  who  chose  each  other  from 
all  the  world,  and  were  sufficient  to  one  another,  fear- 
ing no  man's  frown,  asking  no  man's  favour.  She 
did  not  despise  the  adornments  of  existence,  but  the 
heart  of  life  was  love.  When  we  consider  the  chains 
which  held  her  fast  to  duty,  through  her  darkened 
and  anxious  years,  with  the  perfect  freedom  which 
she  allows  to  the  children  of  her  imagination,  we  can- 
not but  feel  that  in  many  ways  Charlotte  Bronte's 
life  was  a  true  tragedy.  No  one  was  ever  more  faith- 
ful in  outward  compliance  than  she,  but  her  heart 

159 


THE  KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

was  wrapped  in  flames,  though  she  never  suffered  her- 
self to  say  outright  with  Turgenieff's  hero,  "  I  should 
rebel  .  .  .  and  I  rebel,  I  rebel." 


II 

In  George  Eliot  it  is  impossible  not  to  see  the  same 
laceration,  but  there  is  a  striking  contrast  in  the 
attitude  of  the  two  women  to  the  regulated  order  of 
life.  Charlotte  Bronte  was  no  rebel  against  the 
higher  morality,  and  she  reverenced  religion  as  she 
conceived  it.  For  the  morality  and  religion  of  many 
whose  company  she  was  obliged  to  endure,  she  had 
less  than  no  regard.  But  George  Eliot  broke  away 
from  her  early  faith,  and  violated  with  deliberation 
the  chief  law  of  society.  The  circumstances  of  her 
prolonged  alliance  with  G.  H.  Lewes  have  never  been 
fully  disclosed,  and  the  reticence  i-s  justifiable.  Suf- 
fice it  to  say  that  about  the  middle  of  last  century 
there  was  a  great  outbreak  of  George  Sandism  in 
English  society,  and  particularly  in  English  literary 
society.  It  went  much  further  than  any  printed 
record  tells  us,  though  very  significant  hints  may  be 
found  here  and  there,  particularly  in  the  letters  of 
the  Carlyles.  There  are  those  still  living  who  can 
speak  of  its  results.  George  Eliot  happened  to  be 
the  most  conspicuous  offender,  but  she  was  by  no 
means  the  greatest.  In  the  record  of  her  life  it 
seems  as  if  she  had  discarded  the  old  faith  and  prac- 
tice with  hardly  a  struggle.  It  has  been  said  that 

160 


THE   DUAL   LIFE 

she  shed  her  belief  in  Christianity  as  a  rose-tree  sheds 
its  flowers,  and  that  there  is  not  the  faintest  sign  of 
a  moral  pang  in  parting  either  with  religious  creed 
or  with  moral  instinct.  Her  union  with  Lewes  she 
justified  to  the  end. 

But  when  we  turn  to  her  books,  with  their  noble 
ethical  spirit,  we  find  them  one  long  condemnation  of 
her  own  practice.  It  is  little  to  say  that  she  holds 
up  the  sanctity  of  marriage  to  the  respect  of  the 
world.  It  is  not  enough  even  to  say  what  is  true, 
that  she  represents  marriage  as  of  sacramental  sig- 
nificance. What  is  even  more  striking  is  her  merci- 
lessness  to  transgressors.  They  are  pursued  and 
overcome  by  avenging  furies,  and  she  watches  their 
agonies  without  a  tear  of  pity.  The  cruellest  thing 
ever  written  of  a  woman  by  a  woman  is  the  coarse  and 
revolting  episode  of  Mrs.  Transome  in  Felix  Holt. 
It  is  an  indelible  blot  on  George  Eliot's  work  and  rep- 
utation, and  the  punishment  of  Mrs.  Transome  by 
the  hands  of  her  own  son  is  worthy  of  a  remorseless 
fiend,  though  it  was  inflicted  by  an  erring  woman. 
The  more  one  reads  George  Eliot's  books  the  more 
they  seem  to  be  an  expiation  for  her  own  fault. 

Was  she  happy,  then?  Assuredly  not.  She  had 
compensations,  but  the  general  impression  of  her  life 
and  letters  is  profoundly  melancholy.  She  did  not, 
I  think,  part  with  her  early  faith  so  absolutely  and 
so  easily  as  is  generally  thought.  Very  few  do  part 
with  the  beliefs  in  which  they  were  nourished,  however 
they  may  modify  their  expression,  and  however  far 

161 


THE   KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

behind  they  may  leave  them  in  practice.  The  con- 
science of  her  youth  tortured  her,  and  made  her 
tremble.  She  was  never  made  for  defiance.  She  was 
born  to  be  a  moralist,  a  Mrs.  Grundy  of  a  very  noble 
type,  advising  and  warning  passionate  youth  with  an 
uplifted  finger :  "  Now,  my  dear."  Her  books  show 
that  she  was  profoundly  convinced  that  no  woman 
who  violated  the  law  of  honour  could  ever  escape  the 
consequences.  What  is  more  puzzling  is  that  she 
has  very  little  pity,  if  indeed  she  has  any  pity,  for 
any  woman  who  is  the  victim  of  her  weakness.  The 
story  of  Hetty  is  not  so  cruel  as  the  story  of  Mrs. 
Transome,  but  it  is  cruel.  We  are  made  so  to  feel 
the  emptiness,  the  worthlessness,  the  senselessness  of 
Hetty,  that  her  fall  affects  us  scarcely  more  than  the 
fall  of  a  mantelpiece  ornament. 

Ill 

In  Jane  Austen  we  seem  to  have  a  life  as  quiet, 
as  calm,  as  delicate  and  unobtrusive  as  the  life  of 
her  books.  That  life  is  very  tranquil,  uninvaded  by 
the  hurry,  the  crowding  interests,  and  the  aggres- 
siveness of  the  outer  world.  It  gives,  as  has  been 
said,  a  great  sense  of  perfect  seclusion,  ample  oppor- 
tunity, plenty  of  space,  and  plenty  of  time.  The 
immortal  Mr.  Collins  excuses  himself  for  not  sing- 
ing :  "  '  If  I,5  said  Mr.  Collins,  '  were  so  fortunate  as 
to  be  able  to  sing,  I  should  have  great  pleasure  in 
obliging  the  company  with  an  air;  for  I  consider 

162 


THE    DUAL    LIFE 

music  as  a  very  innocent  diversion,  and  perfectly 
compatible  with  the  profession  of  a  clergyman.  I 
do  not  mean,  however,  to  assert  that  we  can  be  jus- 
tified in  devoting  too  much  of  our  time  to  music,  for 
there  are  certainly  other  things  to  be  attended  to. 
The  rector  of  a  parish  has  much  to  do.  In  the  first 
place,  he  must  make  such  an  agreement  for  tithes  as 
may  be  beneficial  to  himself  and  not  offensive  to  his 
patron.  He  must  write  his  own  sermons,  and  the 
time  that  remains  will  not  be  too  much  for  his  parish 
duties,  and  the  care  and  improvement  of  his  dwelling, 
which  he  cannot  be  excused  from  making  as  comfort- 
able as  possible.  And  I  do  not  think  it  of  light  im- 
portance that  he  should  have  attentive  and  concilia- 
tory manners  towards  everybody,  especially  towards 
those  to  whom  he  owes  his  preferment.  I  cannot  ac- 
quit him  of  that  duty ;  nor  could  I  think  well  of  the 
man  who  should  omit  an  occasion  of  testifying  his 
respect  towards  anybody  connected  with  the  family.' 
And  with  a  bow  to  Mr.  Darcy  he  concluded  his 
speech,  which  had  been  spoken  so  loud  as  to  be  heard 
by  half  the  room."  London,  which  has  long  been 
the  great  nerve-knot  of  this  country,  does  not  play 
an  important  part  in  Miss  Austen's  books,  and  in 
Emma,  which  is  perhaps  the  best  of  them,  it  is  hardly 
mentioned  at  all.  Everybody  seems  to  be  within  a 
drive.  Tragedy  scarcely  enters  the  sequestered  life. 
There  is  time  for  the  sedate  flowering  of  every  quality. 
Death  is  almost  completely  excluded.  I  can  remember 
in  the  whole  range  of  Miss  Austen's  fiction  but 

163 


THE   KEY  OF   THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

(death,  and  that  takes  place  off  the  stage.  George 
Eliot's  novels  show  a  profound  sense  of  the  movement 
of  life  towards  death;  nor  does  she  shrink  always 
from  the  deathbed  scenes  which  has  been  so  much 
too  common  in  recent  fiction.  Even  into  Miss  Aus- 
ten's quiet  and  self-centred  country  death  made  his 
entrance,  and  she  had  her  share  of  mortal  sorrow, 
but  the  English  gentlewoman  of  those  days  did  not 
reveal  her  heart.  Miss  Austen's  first  novel  is  de- 
scribed on  the  title-page  as  "  By  a  Lady,"  and  the 
phrase  might  be  used  of  every  line  she  penned.  But 
the  showy,  the  glaring,  the  sentimental,  the  effusive, 
she  shrank  from  instinctively.  She  went  no  further 
than  unobtrusive  irony  and  delicate  banter.  She  was 
happy,  for  the  life  was  in  many  respects  sheltered 
and  restful,  and  her  sense  of  humour  prevented  her 
suffering  from  fools  even  as  much  as  her  companions 
did.  Her  mother  tells  us  that  while  Lady  Saye  and 
Sele  was  wearisome  to  her,  Jane  Austen  found  her 
most  amusing. 

But  one  is  not  sorry  to  know  that  Jane  Austen 
could  feel,  and  feel  very  deeply.  In  Miss  Constance 
Hill's  admirable  book  on  Jane  Austen,  Her  Homes 
and  Her  Friends,  there  is  a  most  interesting  account 
of  a  love  episode  which  seems  to  have  occurred  when 
Jane  Austen  was  twenty-three.  She  met  in  Devon- 
shire a  clergyman  named  Blackall,  and  the  result  was 
a  deep  attachment.  He  died  soon  afterwards.  This 
happened  about  1799,  and  though  Jane  Austen  said 
nothing,  she  ceased  to  write.  "  Between  her  first 

164 


THE    DUAL   LIFE 

novels  and  their  successors,  there  was  a  period  of 
twelve  years,  a  long,  strange  silence,  for  which  there 
must  surely  have  been  some  reason.  Is  it  not  prob- 
able that,  lively  and  cheerful  as  she  was  in  manner, 
she  had  that  deep,  silent  sorrow  at  her  heart,  which 
could  not  but  indispose  her  to  the  exercise  of  writing, 
perhaps  even  paralysed  the  faculty  of  invention." 
Jane  Austen  is  not  the  less  dear  for  this  silence,  and 
the  happiest  thing  is  that  her  last  books,  which  are 
the  brightest  and  sunniest  of  all,  prove  that  she  was 
victorious  over  her  trouble,  that  it  enriched  and  mel- 
lowed her  sweet,  faithful  nature.  Once,  at  least, 
she  let  her  heart  slip  into  her  pen,  when  she  said  as 
Anne  Elliot,  "  All  the  privilege  I  claim  for  my  sex, 
and  it  is  not  a  very  enviable  one,  is  that  of  loving 
longest  when  hope  is  gone." 


165 


CHAPTER  XIX 

IN  THE  WORLD  OF  JANE  AUSTEN 

I  HAVE  occupied  myself  very  pleasantly  in  recent 
hours  of  leisure  by  reading  over  for  a  purpose  Jane 
Austen's  novels  in  the  two  delightful  India  paper 
volumes  published  by  Messrs.  Nelson.  My  purpose 
was  to  comprehend  the  world  Jane  Austen  described, 
which  was  the  world  she  moved  in. 

Of  peculiarities  in  her  style  there  are  very  few. 
The  most  remarkable,  perhaps,  is  her  use  of  the  word 
"  chief,"  particularly  in  Pride  and  Prejudice.  I 
have  traced  only  one  or  two  examples  in  her  other 
books.  She  speaks  of  Elizabeth  Bennet  "  passing 
the  chief  of  the  night  in  her  sister's  room."  Again : 
"  The  chief  of  every  day  was  spent  by  him  at  Lucas 
Lodge."  Again :  "  Mrs.  Gardiner,  to  whom  the  chief 
of  the  news  had  been  given  before."  Again :  "  The 
chief  of  the  time  between  breakfast  and  dinner  was 
now  passed  by  him  either  at  work  in  the  garden  or  in 
reading  and  writing."  There  are  other  instances, 
but  these  will  suffice.  However,  that  is  not  my  point. 
I  make  notes  on  Jane  Austen's  views  on  matrimony, 
on  income,  and  on  reading. 

I 

The  place  occupied  by  matrimony  and  matchmak- 
ing in  the  minds  and  lives  of  her  people  is  astounding. 

166 


IN  THE  WORLD  OF  JANE  AUSTEN 

It  is  fair  to  say  that  she  is  describing  the  manners 
of  her  period,  and  that  in  her  best  female  characters, 
Elizabeth  Bennet  and  Anne  Elliot,  she  gives  us  ex- 
amples of  sweet  and  dignified  womanhood.  But  on 
the  whole,  marriage  is  the  prime  interest  on  almost 
every  one  of  her  pages.  When  the  curtain  rises  at 
the  beginning  of  her  novels,  we  are  introduced  im- 
mediately to  marriageable  ladies  and  single  men  of 
good  fortune  who  may  be  induced  to  choose  them. 
Mothers  are  exceedingly  solicitous,  and  all  take  part 
in  the  game — fathers,  aunts,  and  sisters.  Of  Mrs. 
Bennet  we  are  told  that  the  marriage  of  her  daughter 
had  been  the  first  object  of  her  wishes  since  Jane  was 
sixteen. 

The  young  ladies  themselves,  are,  as  a  rule,  quite 
candid  on  the  subject.  Thus  of  Charlotte  Lucas 
we  are  told  that  without  thinking  highly  either 
of  men  or  of  matrimony,  marriage  had  always  been 
her  object.  "  It  was  the  only  honourable  profession 
for  well-educated  women  of  small  fortune,  and  how- 
ever uncertain  all  coming  happiness  must  be,  their 
pleasantest  preservative  from  want."  Maria  Bert- 
ram in  Mansfield  Park  has  a  matchmaker  in  her  aunt 
Mrs.  Norris.  "  It  would  be  peculiarly  consoling  to 
see  their  dear  Maria  settled,  she  very  often  thought 
— always  when  they  were  in  the  company  of  men  of 
fortune,  and  particularly  on  the  introduction  of  a 
young  man  who  had  recently  succeeded  to  one  of  the 
best  estates  and  finest  places  in  the  country."  Mary 
Crawford,  who  is  by  no  means  "  odious,"  had  not 

167 


THE  KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

been  three  hours  in  the  house  before  she  told  what 
she  had  planned.  "  Matrimony  was  her  object,  pro- 
vided she  could  marry  well."  Even  Marianne  Dash- 
woods  says  much  the  same  thing.  The  openness  with 
which  matrimonial  disappointments  are  discussed  is 
amazing. 

When  Mr.  Collins  is  refused  by  Elizabeth  Bennet, 
it  seems  as  if  everything  went  on  in  public. 
There  is  no  sort  of  reticence.  As  soon  as  he  is  re- 
fused, Mrs.  Bennet  undertakes  to  bring  her  to  rea- 
son. "  I  will  go  directly  to  Mr.  Bennet,  and  we  shall 
very  soon  settle  that  with  him,  I  am  sure.  Accord- 
ingly she  called  out  to  Mr.  Bennet:  '  You  must  come 
and  make  Lizzie  marry  Mr.  Collins,  for  she  vows  she 
will  not  have  him.' 5i  Lizzie  is  summoned  to  the 
library,  but  Mr.  Bennet  refuses  to  be  firm.  The  sis- 
ters are  then  called  in,  and  while  the  family  is  con- 
fused, Charlotte  Lucas  comes  to  spend  the  day  with 
them,  and  is  told  the  news.  Mr.  Collins  keeps  on 
staying  in  the  house  for  a  day  or  two  in  a  state  of 
angry  pride,  while  another  of  the  daughters  thinks 
that  she  may  marry  him.  The  young  ladies  make 
very  little  concealment  of  their  feelings  when  men  will 
not  propose.  Emma  is  an  exception  at  first,  that 
is,  she  does  not  think  of  marrying  herself,  but  she 
is  fully  engrossed  in  trying  to  marry  her  friends,  and 
in  this  way  comes  to  discover  her  own  feelings.  Only 
a  very  few,  and  these  the  best,  of  Jane  Austen's 
heroines  are  reserved  to  the  point  of  self-respect. 

168 


IN  THE  WORLD  OF  JANE  AUSTEN 

It  Is  painfully  evident  that  to  the  women  of  these 
times  there  was  no  career  save  marriage,  although 
the  old  maid  in  good  circumstances  might  be  respec- 
table and  respected.  True,  penniless  young  ladies 
might  become  governesses  as  Jane  Fairfax  did,  but 
Jane  describes  the  profession  of  a  governess  with 
nothing  short  of  horror.  She  says :  "  I  was  not 
thinking  of  the  slave  trade — governess  trade  was  all 
I  had  in  view — widely  different  certainly  as  to  the 
guilt  of  those  who  carry  it  on,  but  as  to  the  greater 
misery  of  the  victims  I  do  not  know  where  it  lies." 
Emma,  while  busy  with  the  affairs  of  others,  main- 
tains that  she  could  endure  the  lot  of  an  old  maid. 
But  she  was  rich.  "  A  single  woman  with  a  very 
narrow  income  must  be  a  ridiculous,  disagreeable  old 
maid."  It  is  poverty  only  which  makes  celibacy 
contemptible  to  a  generous  public.  We  have  in 
Emma  the  portrait  of  an  estimable  but  ridiculous 
old  maid,  Miss  Bates,  described  by  the  unregenerate 
Emma  as  "  so  silly,  so  smiling,  so  prosy,  so  undis- 
tinguished, and  so  .fastidious."  Jane  Austen  has 
never  drawn  a  really  sweet,  noble,  and  stately  old 
maid. 

Women  in  Jane  Austin's  world  had  to  begin  early 
if  they  were  to  secure  husbands.  Seventeen  seems  to 
have  been  thought  a  reasonable  age  for  marriage, 
though  perhaps  twenty-one  was  the  best  age.  Con- 
ditions became  very  serious  at  twenty-seven.  It  was 
at  that  time  that  Charlotte  Lucas  was  engaged.  She 

169 


THE   KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

felt  all  the  good  luck  of  it.  Marianne  Dashwood  de- 
clared that  a  woman  of  twenty-seven  could  never 
hope  to  feel  or  inspire  affection  again.  The  sweet 
Anne  Elliot  married  at  twenty-seven,  but  we  are  told 
that  there  was  an  interval  before  that  age  when  her 
physical  charm  was  dimmed.  In  the  case  of  Eliza- 
beth Elliot,  it  allowed  that  it  sometimes  happens  that 
a  woman  is  handsomer  at  twenty-nine  than  she  was 
ten  years  before.  In  fact,  if  there  has  been  neither 
ill-health  nor  anxiety,  it  is  a  time  of  life  at  which  no 
charm  need  be  lost.  Still  Elizabeth  felt  the  near 
approach  of  the  years  of  danger,  and  she  had  good 
reasons  for  her  apprehension.  After  thirty  it  seems 
as  if  hope  is  past.  Jane  Austen  has  indeed  very  little 
mercy  for  old  age,  and  it  is  no  great  concession  to  say 
that  "  a  large  bulky  figure  has  as  good  a  right  to  be 
in  deep  affliction  as  the  most  graceful  set  of  limbs  in 
the  world." 


II 


Miss  Austen  has  much  to  say  on  the  incomes  of 
her  characters,  more  perhaps  than  any  other  English 
novelist,  with  the  possible  exception  of  Trollope. 
Balzac  exceeded  her  in  minuteness.  Scott,  so  far  as 
I  can  remember,  has  only  once  touched  the  subject. 
The  most  revealing  touch  on  this  subject  that  I 
remember  is  poor  Charlotte  Bronte's  specification  of 
Shirley's  magnificent  income.  It  amounted  to  no  less 

170 


IN  THE  WORLD  OF  JANE  AUSTEN 

than  £1000  a  year,  a  sum  which  seemed  to  Miss 
Bronte,  as  to  Shirley,  incalculable  riches.  Shirley, 
when  she  accepted  Moore,  addressed  him  thus :  "  I  do 
not  ask  you  to  take  off  my  shoulders  all  the  cares  and 
duties  of  property,  but  I  ask  you  to  share  the  bur- 
den, and  to  show  me  how  to  sustain  my  part  well." 
Miss  Austen's  average  woman  is  very  much  alive  to 
the  importance  of  a  large  income.  That  income  is 
best  derived  from  sound  freehold  property.  The 
landlord  is  the  gentleman.  When  Anne  Elliot's 
father  escaped  to  the  gaiety  of  Bath  she  grieved  that 
he  should  see  nothing  to  regret  in  the  "  duties  and 
dignities  of  the  resident  landlord."  Elinor  Dash- 
wood  thinks  that  grandeur  can  do  little  for  happi- 
ness, but  that  wealth  has  much  to  do  with  it,  and 
Miss  Crawford  holds  that  "  a  large  income  is  the 
best  recipe  for  happiness  I  have  ever  heard  of." 
When  Miss  Austen  is  describing  the  country  society 
with  which  she  is  most  familiar,  she  has  little  hesita- 
tion in  fixing  the  necessary  revenue.  A  country  gen- 
tleman with  £2000  a  year  of  his  own  and  a  moderate 
addition  from  his  wife  is  well  off,  but  it  is  better  if 
his  fortune  should  run  to  £2500;  £4000  a  year — 
Mr.  Bingley's  income — is  very  good  indeed,  £10,000 
a  year,  which  was  the  income  of  Mr.  Darcy,  is  "  a 
noble  fortune."  The  dowries  of  women  are,  as  a 
rule,  not  excessive ;  in  the  case  of  the  Dashwood  girls 
only  £1000  to  each.  Miss  Maria  Ward,  of  Hunting- 
don, who  married  Sir  Thomas  Bertram,  had  £7000, 
and  this  was  considered  at  least  £3000  short  of  what 

171 


THE   KEY   OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

it  should  have  been ;  £20,000  is  a  very  good  fortune 
for  a  girl,  and  £30,000,  which  was  the  fortune  of 
Georgiana  Darcy,  is  splendid.  In  Emma,  Miss  Aus- 
ten enters  a  lower  region  of  society.  She  depicts  the 
life  of  a  country  town  in  Surrey,  which  was  little 
more  than  a  village.  Every  one  was  friendly,  and 
there  the  apothecary  and  the  business  man  from 
London  mixed  in  the  best  society.  But  in  coun- 
try society  the  clergyman  is  almost  the  only  poor 
man,  save  relations,  who  enters  the  circle.  A  clergy- 
man's income  is  sufficient  if  it  amounts  to  £700  a 
year,  but  it  is  better  when  it  is  £1000.  On  this  a 
young  couple  may  live  reputably;  £350  a  year  is 
not  sufficient.  When  Mr.  Ferrars  married  Miss 
Dashwood,  "  they  were  neither  of  them  quite  enough 
in  love  to  think  that  .£350  a  year  would  supply  them 
with  all  the  comforts  of  life."  It  did  not  occur  to 
their  well-regulated  minds  that  they  should  marry  till 
these  comforts  were  secured,  and  a  timely  addition 
of  £10,000  to  their  fortune  saved  the  situation.  I 
should  add  that  in  these  days  the  Navy  seems  to  have 
been  a  lucrative  profession,  and  Wentworth,  the  hus- 
band of  Anne  Elliot,  was  reputed  to  have  made  £20,- 
000  by  the  war. 


I  should  be  tempted  to  say  that  the  'dominant 
thought  in  Miss  Austen's  mind  was  the  supreme  im- 
portance of  reading.  What  troubled  her  about  her 

112 


IN  THE  WORLD  OF  JANE  AUSTEN 

characters  was  their  ignorance  and  their  silliness, 
their  idleness  and  their  vanity.  She  had  a  most  ab- 
solute conviction  that  the  wise  could  not  be  happy 
with  the  foolish,  and  that  even  the  wise  could  not 
maintain  the  zest  of  a  married  life  without  con- 
tinually cultivating  their  minds.  Perhaps  the  clas- 
sical passage  on  this  subject  is  in  Mansfield  Park. 
There  Miss  Austen  ridicules  the  female  education  of 
the  day.  The  two  sisters  Bertram  are  talking  to 
Mrs.  Norris  about  the  ignorance  of  their  cousin 
Fanny.  "  I  cannot  remember  the  time  when  I  did 
not  know  a  great  deal  that  she  has  not  the  least 
notion  of,  yet  how  long  it  is,  aunt,  since  we  used  to 
repeat  the  chronological  order  of  the  Kings  of  Eng- 
land, with  the  dates  of  their  accession,  and  most  of 
the  principal  events  of  their  reign."  "  Yes,"  added 
the  other,  "  and  all  the  Roman  Emperors  as  low  as 
Severus,  besides  a  great  deal  of  the  heathen  mythol- 
ogy, and  of  the  metals,  semi-metals,  planets  and  dis- 
tinguished philosophers."  This  education  Miss 
Austen  esteemed  lightly.  When  Edmund  Bertram 
took  his  cousin's  mind  in  hand,  "  his  attentions  were 
otherwise  of  the  highest  importance  in  assisting  the 
improvement  of  her  mind  and  extending  its  pleasures. 
He  knew  her  to  be  clever,  to  have  a  quick  apprehen- 
sion as  well  as  good  sense,  and  a  fondness  for  read- 
ing which,  properly  directed,  must  be  an  education 
in  itself.  Miss  Lee  taught  her  French,  and  heard 
her  read  the  daily  portion  of  history,  but  he  recom- 
mended the  books  which  charmed  her  leisure  hours. 

173 


THE  KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

He  encouraged  her  taste  and  corrected  her  judg- 
ment; he  made  reading  useful  by  talking  to  her  of 
what  she  read,  and  heightened  its  attraction  by  judi- 
cious praise."  Miss  Austen's  theory  of  education  is 
to  be  found  in  the  words,  "  a  fondness  for  reading, 
which,  properly  directed,  must  be  an  education  in 
itself."  Is  there  any  better  theory  of  education  than 
this?  I  do  not  know  of  one.  We  find  later  on  that 
Fanny  had  been  a  collector  of  books  from  the  first 
hour  of  her  ever  commanding  a  shilling,  and  among 
her  possessions  were  Crabbe's  Tales  and  the  Idler. 
She  used  to  read  Shakespeare  to  her  aunt,  and  the 
only  occasion  on  which  Crawford  nearly  touched  her 
heart  was  when  he  read  Shakespeare  aloud  in  a  dra- 
matic way.  In  Sense  and  Sensibility  Marianne  Dash- 
wood  had  the  knack  of  finding  her  way  in  every  house 
to  the  library,  however  it  might  be  avoided  by  the 
family  in  general.  When  Emma  questioned  Harriet 
about  her  lover,  Mr.  Martin,  the  interrogations  began 
thus :  "  Mr.  Martin,  I  suppose,  is  not  a  man  of  in- 
formation beyond  the  line  of  his  own  business.  He 
does  not  read?"  It  turned  out  that  Mr.  Martin 
had  not  read  the  Romance  of  the  Forest,  and  the 
Children  of  the  Abbey.  As  for  Harriet,  she  could 
do  nothing  but  collect  and  transcribe  all  the  rid- 
dles of  every  sort  she  could  meet  with  on  a  thin 
quarto  of  hot  pressed  paper.  Captain  Benwick 
pleased  Anne  Elliot  by  being  a  young  man  of  con- 
siderable taste  and  reading,  though  principally  in 
Boetry.  She  recommended  him  a  large  allowance 

174 


IN  THE  WORLD  OF  JANE  AUSTEN 

of  prose  in  his  daily  study,  "  and  on  being  requested 
to  particularise,  mentioned  such  works  of  our  best 
moralists,  such  collections  of  the  finest  letters,  such 
memoirs  of  characters  of  worth  and  suffering  as  oc- 
curred to  her  at  the  moment  as  calculated  to  rouse 
and  fortify  the  mind  by  the  highest  precepts  and  the 
strongest  examples  of  moral  and  religious  genius." 

When  she  heard  that  Captain  Benwick  was  to 
marry  Louisa  Musgrove,  she  was  perplexed.  The 
high-spirited,  joyous,  talking  Louisa  Musgrove,  and 
the  dejected,  thinking,  reading  Captain  Benwick, 
seemed  each  of  them  everything  that  would  not  suit 
the  other,  their  minds  most  dissimilar.  Where  could 
have  been  the  attraction  ?  Darcy  talked  to  Elizabeth 
so  agreeably  of  new  books  and  music  that  she  had 
never  been  so  well  entertained  in  the  room  before. 
Mrs.  Bennet's  weak  understanding  and  illiberal  mind 
had  very  early  in  her  marriage  put  an  end  to  all  her 
husband's  affection  for  her.  Those  who  did  not  care 
for  reading  had  to  make  a  pretence  of  caring.  Miss 
Bingley  yawned  when  reading  with  Mr.  Darcy,  but 
she  had  to  say,  "  There  is  no  enjoyment  like  reading. 
How  much  sooner  one  tires  of  anything  than  of  a 
book!  When  I  have  a  house  of  my  own  I  shall  be 
miserable  if  I  have  not  an  excellent  library."  There 
are  many  other  illustrations  which  I  am  compelled 
to  leave  out. 

Jane  Austen  says  nothing  of  death,  but  she  does 
not  hesitate  sometimes  to  paint  the  darker  sides  of 
life,  and  on  the  whole  she  must  be  considered  very 

175 


THE   KEY   OF.  THE  BLUE   CLOSET 

lenient.  Hers  was  no  doubt  an  age  of  elopements. 
She  says  little  or  nothing  about  religion,  though  in 
her  heart  deeply  religious.  One  curious  reference  is 
made  in  Persuasion:  Anne  Elliot  knew  that  there  had 
been  bad  habits  in  her  cousin's  life,  that  Sunday 
travelling  had  been  a  common  thing. 


176 


CHAPTER   XX 

"  THERE    MUST    BE    MANY    A    PAIR    OF    FRIENDS  " 

I  AM  not  thinking  of  friendships  between  men  and 
women.  There  are  many  examples  of  such  in  biog- 
raphies, and  there  would  be  more,  I  fancy,  if  biog- 
raphies were  not  so  much  doctored  as  they  are.  In 
the  life  of  Archbishop  Benson  we  read :  "  All  his  great 
friendships,  especially  of  later  years,  have  been  with 
women ;  he  was  not  really  at  home  in  an  atmosphere 
of  perfect  equality;  surround  him  with  a  certain 
deference  and  affection,  and  he  was  expansive,  hu- 
morous, and  racy.  But  with  men  of  like  age,  whose 
views  he  imagined  differed  widely  from  his  own,  he 
froze  and  became  silent  and  severe.  .  .  .  He  thought 
of  the  Church,  or  rather  of  religion,  as  the  absorbing 
fact  of  life.  People  of  diametrically  opposite  views 
he  could  not  really  tolerate.  Cordiality  with  them 
was  out  of  the  question.  And  he  would  not  really 
ever  try  to  meet  them  or  argue  with  them.  Several 
times,  as  in  the  Education  Bill  controversy,  he  lost 
ground  by  not  being  able  frankly  to  meet  and  discuss 
matters  with  certain  leading  Radicals,  who  would 
have  been  quite  ready  to  meet  him  half-way.  But 
their  view,  or  what  he  thought  was  their  view,  was 

177 


THE  KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

incredible  and  unintelligible  to  him."  Nor  am  I 
thinking  of  the  ordinary  intimacies  between  men. 
Some  men  have  no  friends  in  the  full  sense  of  the 
word.  Others  have  a  good  many  intimate  friends, 
none  rising  clearly  above  the  rest.  I  am  thinking 
of  men  who  have  one  great  friend,  one  man  whom  they 
need,  to  whom  they  tell  everything,  whom  they  must 
meet  as  often  as  possible,  whom  they  cannot  do  with- 
out, who  influence  them,  and  are  influenced  by  them. 
Such  friendships  may  cover  parts  of  life,  or  almost 
the  whole  of  life.  The  point  is  that  they  are  su- 
preme while  they  endure.  I  shall  put  down  such 
instances  as  occur  to  me. 

It  is  worth  noting  that  Tennyson,  so  far  as  the 
record  goes,  had  no  supreme  friend  after  A.  H. 
Hallam.  I  doubt  whether  he  had  any  woman  friend 
even.  In  Memonam  was,  in  the  full  sense  of  the 
word,  a  sincere  book,  for  it  commemorated  an  affec- 
tion for  which  the  writer  never  found  any  substitute. 
By  the  way,  has  it  been  sufficiently  remarked  that 
In  Memoriam  makes  but  a  limited  appeal  to  the  be- 
reaved? Its  intensity  has  carried  it  through;  but 
when  we  think  of  it,  we  shall  see  that  the  bereave- 
ments in  life  that  leave  aching,  unhealed  wounds  are 
not  of  the  type  Tennyson  commemorates.  Most  peo- 
ple become  soon  consoled  for  the  loss  of  a  friend, 
however  dear  and  intimate.  There  must  be,  as  a 
rule,  nearer  relations  to  create  the  enduring  sense  of 
want. 

Thackeray,  in  the  proper  sense,  seems  to  have 
178 


"MANY  A   PAIR    OF    FRIENDS" 

had  no  friend.  It  is  true  that  he  spoke  of  Fitz- 
Gerald  as  his  greatest  friend ;  but  FitzGerald  and  he 
rarely  met  or  corresponded,  and  a  high  friendship 
insists  on  intercourse,  whatever  the  difficulties  may 
be.  I  imagine  that  Thackeray  had  close  friendships 
with  women.  This  was  also  the  case  with  Dickens, 
though  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  his  passionate  af- 
fection for  John  Forster.  On  one  occasion  Dickens 
signed  a  letter  John  Forster,  and  then  wrote  a  quaint, 
pathetic  apology,  saying  that  his  thoughts  were 
always  so  full  of  Forster  that  he  sometimes  con- 
founded Forster's  identity  with  his  own. 

I  was  set  upon  my  subject  by  reading  over  again, 
according  to  my  annual  custom,  the  life  of  Lord 
Macaulay.  The  revelation  of  that  life  was  Lord 
Macaulay's  extraordinary  affection  for  his  sisters 
and  their  children.  He  had  one  friend,  however,  who 
seems  to  have  been  in  the  full  sense  of  the  word  a  con- 
fidential friend.  This  friend  was  Mr.  T.  F.  Ellis,  a 
barrister  of  no  very  great  mark.  Ellis  was  an  excel- 
lent classical  scholar,  and  that  was  one  bond  of  kin- 
ship between  Lord  Macaulay  and  himself;  but  there 
must  have  been  others.  Macaulay  never  married, 
and  so  far  as  the  public  knows,  he  was  never  even  in 
love.  This  gives  a  peculiar  interest  to  his  views  upon 
women,  which,  as  careful  students  of  his  works  know, 
were  decided  and  defined.  He  says  significantly,  on 
the  death  of  Ellis's  wife,  that  he  felt  so  much  for  his 
friend  that  to  bring  his  wife  back  he  would  give  one 
of  his  fingers,  "  which  is  more  than  most  widowers 

179 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  BLUE  CLOSET 

would  give  to  bring  back  theirs."  In  his  history, 
referring  to  Madame  de  Maintenon,  he  describes  the 
kind  of  wife  a  middle-aged  man  should  choose. 
"  When  she  attracted  the  notice  of  her  Sovereign 
she  could  no  longer  boast  of  youth  or  beauty;  but 
she  possessed  in  an  extraordinary  degree  those  more 
lasting  charms  which  men  of  sense  whose  passions  age 
has  tamed,  and  whose  life  is  a  life  of  business  and 
care,  prize  most  highly  in  a  female  companion.  Her 
character  was  such  as  has  been  well  compared  to  that 
soft  green  on  which  the  eye,  wearied  by  warm  tints 
and  glaring  lights,  reposes  with  pleasure.  A  just 
understanding;  an  inexhaustible  and  never  redundant 
flow  of  rational,  gentle,  and  sprightly  conversation; 
a  temper  of  which  the  serenity  was  never  for  a  mo- 
ment ruffled;  a  tact  which  surpassed  the  tact  of  her 
sex  as  much  as  the  tact  of  her  sex  surpasses  the  tact 
of  ours ;  such  were  the  qualities  which  made  the  widow 
of  a  buffoon  first  the  confidential  friend  and  then 
the  spouse  of  the  proudest  and  most  powerful  of 
European  kings."  There  is  much  more  autobiog- 
raphy in  Macaulay's  writings  than  has  yet  been 
pointed  out. 

Of  supreme  friendships  which  lasted  through  cir- 
cumstances but  a  brief  time  I  may  recall  that  of 
Robert  Hall  and  James  Mackintosh,  when  they  were 
students  together  at  King's  Collage,  Aberdeen. 
Theirs  must  have  been  a  rare  and  lofty  communion. 
Circumstances  divided  them,  but  they  were  never 
really  estranged,  and  the  letter  of  the  author  of 

180 


"MANY  A   PAIR    OF   FRIENDS" 

Vindicios  Gallicce  to  the  great  Baptist,  when  Hall 
was  under  a  cloud  of  madness,  is  one  of  the  finest  ever 
written. 

There  was  the  singular  passion  of  friendship 
between  Dr.  Chalmers  and  a  young  man  in  Glas- 
gow who  was  a  member  of  his  congregation,  Thomas 
Smith.  While  it  lasted  it  was  a  true  devotion.  It 
seemed  to  fulfil  every  condition  of  friendship,  but  it 
was  interrupted  early  by  Smith's  death.  Dr.  John- 
son was  rich  in  friends,  and  they  were  friends  worthy 
of  him.  There  were  Garrick,  and  Burke,  and  Rey- 
nolds, and  Goldsmith,  and  Bennet  Langton,  and  Top- 
ham  Beauclerk,  and  Boswell.  But  I  think  the  true 
Johnsonian  will  admit  that  the  deepest  affection  for 
another  man  ever  shown  by  Johnson  was  given  to  the 
poor  apothecary  Robert  Levett.  There  was  no  kind 
of  intellectual  equality  between  the  men,  and  nobody 
could  see  what  attracted  Johnson  to  his  poor  friend. 
In  fact,  people  are  often  unable  to  explain  friend- 
ships. But  whatever  the  explanation,  it  is  clear  that 
Johnson  set  his  heart  upon  him.  He  resolved  with 
uncommon  earnestness  that  whatever  change  might 
befall  him  he  would  never  be  separated  from  Dr. 
Levett.  When  Levett  died  he  wrote  the  noble  poem, 
which  he  surpassed  only  in  his  lines: — 

"  Sleep  undisturbed  within  thy  peaceful  shrine 
Till  angels  wake  thee  with  a  note  like  thine." 

I  do  not  wonder  that  Johnson  was  Scott's  favour- 
ite poet.  There  are  few  letters  at  once  more 

181 


THE   KEY  OF  THE   BLUE  CLOSET, 

'dignified  and  more  pathetic  than  that  in  which 
Johnson  announces  Levett's  death.  "  So  has  ended 
the  long  life  of  a  very  useful  and  a  very  blameless 
man." 

One  of  the  most  fascinating  studies  in  friendship 
is  the  relation  between  Pope  and  Bolingbroke. 
Bolingbroke  had  a  strange  upbringing.  His  re- 
ligious education  was  chiefly  in  the  sermons  of  Dr. 
Manton,  the  Puritan  who  wrote  the  enormous  com- 
mentary on  the  hundred  and  nineteenth  psalm.  Dr. 
Manton's  influence  did  him  no  good.  He  became  a 
drunkard  and  a  profligate;  but  he  had  great  quali- 
ties, and  could  be  studious,  hard-working,  and  philo- 
sophical. His  wife  long  retained  her  affection  for 
him,  in  spite  of  his  manifold  infidelities.  Many 
storms  were  over  when  he  became  acquainted  with 
Pope.  The  two  men  were  as  dissimilar  as  possible. 
Bolingbroke  was  handsome  and  commanding  in  ap- 
pearance, and  his  temper  was  joyous  and  affec- 
tionate. Pope,  on  the  other  hand,  was  deformed, 
malignant,  and  preternaturally  sensitive.  Students 
of  Whitwell  Elwin  will  not  be  able,  however  much 
they  wish  it,  to  rate  Pope's  character  high.  Yet 
he,  too,  had  noble  qualities,  and  between  himself  and 
Bolingbroke  there  grew  up  a  fast  friendship.  It 
seems  certain  that  Bolingbroke  supplied  the  ideas 
of  the  Essay  on  Man,  while  Pope  gave  the  setting 
and  the  colouring.  Of  Bolingbroke,  Pope  said  that 
he  was  the  greatest  man  and  one  of  the  best  friends 
he  ever  knew,  and  that  he  had  known  him  so  long  and 

182 


"MANY  A   PAIR    OF    FRIENDS" 

so  truly  as  not  possibly  to  be  deceived.  In  one  of 
Pope's  letters  we  find  this  passage :  "  I  now  hold 
the  pen  for  my  Lord  Bolingbroke,  who  is  reading 
your  letter  between  two  haycocks,  but  his  attention 
is  somewhat  diverted  by  casting  his  eyes  on  the 
clouds,  not  in  admiration  of  what  you  say,  but  for 
fear  of  a  shower.  He  is  pleased  with  your  placing 
him  in  the  triumvirate  between .  you  and  me,  while 
one  of  us  runs  away  with  all  the  power  like  Augus- 
tus, and  another  with  all  the  pleasures  like  Anthony. 
It  is  upon  a  foresight  of  this  that  he  has  fitted  up 
his  farm."  Pope  had  so  strong  an  admiration  for 
Bolingbroke's  gifts  that  he  said  when  a  comet  ap- 
peared he  fancied  it  might  be  a  coach  to  take 
Bolingbroke  home.  But  the  friendship  of  the  two 
men  was  not  based  on  mere  admiration.  Each  saw 
deeper.  When  Bolingbroke  hung  over  the  bedside 
of  the  dying  poet,  he  said :  "  I  never  knew  a  man 
that  had  so  tender  a  heart  for  his  particular  friends, 
or  more  genuine  friendship  for  mankind.  I  have 
known  Pope  these  thirty  years,  and  value  myself 

more  in  his  friendship  than He  could  add  no 

more.  When  Pope  reviewed  his  life  on  his  deathbed, 
and  remembered  all  he  had  done  for  his  friend,  and 
all  that  his  friend  had  done  for  him,  he  declared, 
"  There  is  nothing  that  is  meritorious  but  virtue  and 
friendship,  and,  indeed,  friendship  is  only  a  part  of 
virtue." 

Another  noble  and  touching  friendship  was  that 
between  Coleridge  and  Charles  Lamb.     Both  of  these 

183 


THE  KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

groat  men  passed  shadowed  and  even  tragical  lives. 
Both  emerged  more  and  more  clearly  as  the  first 
among  a  circle  of  greatly  endowed  natures.  Yet 
what  a  friendship  was  theirs ;  through  what  strug- 
gles, and  destinies,  and  hungerings,  and  tempta- 
tions, and  bewilderments,  and  falls  did  it  pass.  To 
Coleridge,  writes  Lamb  from  London :  "  I  know  not 
what  suffering  scenes  you  have  gone  through  at 
Bristol.  My  life  has  been  somewhat  diversified  of 
late.  The  six  weeks  that  finished  last  year  and  be- 
gun this  your  very  humble  servant  spent  very 
agreeably  in  a  mad-house  at  Hoxton.  I  am  not 
rational,  and  do  not  bite  any  one;  but  mad  I  was, 
and  many  a  vagary  my  imagination  played  with 
me.  Coleridge,  it  may  convince  you  of  my  regard 
for  you  when  I  tell  you  my  head  ran  on  you  in  my 
madness  as  much  as  on  another  person  [Lamb's  sis- 
ter], who  I  am  inclined  to  think  was  the  more 
immediate  cause  of  my  temporary  frenzy."  Cole- 
ridge wrote :  "  My  happiest  moments  are  broken  in 
upon  by  the  reflection  that  I  must  make  haste.  I 
am  too  late!  I  am  already  months  behind!  I  have 
received  my  pay  months  beforehand!  O  wayward 
and  desultory  spirit  of  genius !  Ill  canst  thou  brook 
a  taskmaster.  The  tenderest  touch  from  the  hand 
of  obligation  wounds  thee  like  a  scourge  of  scor- 
pions." It  was,  as  has  been  said,  through  cloud  and 
sunshine  and  simoon  that  they  two  loved  each  other 
with  a  love  possible  only  to  heroic  hearts.  Lamb 
could  laugh  at  Coleridge  preaching  to  a  button,  but 


"MANY  A   PAIR    OF    FRIENDS" 

he  was  too  wise  not  to  understand  that  Coleridge's 
was  among  the  mightiest  of  created  intellects,  sec- 
ond in  England  only  to  Shakespeare.  Nor  did 
Coleridge  fail  to  see  his  friend's  genius,  a  genius 
which  was  in  one  of  its  aspects  a  genius  for 
goodness. 

I  wish  I  had  space  to  write  of  the  friendship  be- 
tween Goethe  and  Schiller.  The  colossal  calm  of 
Goethe  was  broken  by  Schiller's  death.  It  was  not 
apparently  broken  when  his  own  son  was  smitten, 
but  when  he  knew  there  was  no  hope  for  Schiller  he 
wept  in  the  hours  of  the  lonely  night.  In  the  morn- 
ing he  inquired  of  a  woman  whether  Schiller  had 
been  very  ill  yesterday.  The  woman  sobbed  audibly. 
"He  is  dead?"  said  Goethe,  faintly.  "You  have 
said  it,"  she  replied.  "  He  is  dead,"  repeated  Goethe, 
covering  his  eyes  with  his  hands.  Nor  should  we 
forget  the  friendship  between  Jean  Paul  Richter 
and  Christian  Otto.  This  was  one  of  the  friendships 
where  there  was  a  complete  exchange  of  thought. 
The  two  were  transparent  to  one  another,  and  they 
lifted  one  another.  "  I  pray  thee,"  said  Richter  to 
Otto,  "  to  be  my  public,  my  reading  world,  my  critic, 
my  reviewer."  For  fourteen  years  they  corre- 
sponded daily,  until  at  last  they  were  able  to  live  at 
Bayreuth  together.  Jean  Paul  had  become  famous, 
but  the  fellowship  of  Otto  was  sweeter  than  ever. 
Otto  was  near  Richter  when  he  died,  and  in  death 
they  were  not  divided,  for  Otto  survived  his  friend 
but  a  few  months,  arranged  the  last  manuscript  of 

185 


THE   KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET, 

the  unfinished  Selma,  and  then  quickly  drooped 
away  in  sorrow.  The  letters  between  the  two  brim 
over  with  the  largesse  of  human  sympathy,  and  are 
an  enduring  memorial  of  a  friendship  which  was  at 
once  heroic,  tender,  and  truthful. 


186 


CHAPTER    XXI 

DR.    ALEXANDER    BAIN 

ON  Friday  morning,  September  18,  1903,  Dr. 
Alexander  Bain,  Emeritus  Professor  of  Logic  and 
English  Literature  in  the  University  of  Aberdeen, 
passed  away  in  his  eighty-sixth  year.  His  was  a 
very  strong  and  remarkable  personality,  and  his 
work  was  influential  in  no  ordinary  degree.  The 
Autobiography  which  he  has  left  behind  him  has 
done  something  to  make  his  individuality  intelligible, 
but  like  Mark  Pattison's  it  has  failed  to  do  him 
justice.  I  can  speak  of  him  only  from  the  recollec- 
tions of  a  pupil,  recollections  which,  alas!  go  back 
for  more  than  thirty  years.  Of  his  private  life  I 
never  knew  anything,  and  save  for  a  few  communi- 
cations on  literary  business,  I  had  no  intercourse 
with  him  after  leaving  College,  but  I  can  understand 
that  he  was  "  thinking  long  to  die."  His  work  was 
finished,  and  though  he  did  not  profess  to  love  work, 
he  lived  for  it.  He  tells  us  himself  that  his  friend 
John  Stuart  Mill's  fixed  idea  was  that  he  came  into 
the  world  not  to  serve  himself,  but  to  serve  his  race, 
and  that  idleness,  except  as  a  condition  of  renewed 
labour,  was  culpable  and  base.  His  favourite  text 
was — "  The  night  cometh  when  no  man  can  work." 
Here  is  an  interesting  remark  in  a  letter  to  Thorn- 

187 


THE   KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

ton  in  1860.  Thornton  had  been  to  see  Oxford,  and 
Mill  recalls  his  own  visit  twenty  years  before,  and 
says :  "  In  that  same  holiday  I  completed  the  first 
ilraft  of  my  Logic,  and  had  for  the  first  time  the 
feeling  that  I  had  now  actually  accomplished  some- 
thing— that  one  certain  portion  of  my  life's  work 
was  done."  I  understand  that  on  the  night  of  his 
death,  when  he  was  informed  that  he  would  not 
recover,  he  immediately  said :  "  My  work  is 
done." 

Like  other  schoolboys  of  that  generation  in  the 
North  of  Scotland,  I  knew  Bain  first  through  his 
Grammar.  The  book  had  a  great  sale,  largely  a 
forced  sale,  because  it  was  made  one  of  the  subjects 
of  examination  in  the  Bursary  competition,  but  in 
addition  to  that  a  considerable  sale  throughout  the 
world.  Having  learned  it  and  taught  it,  I  came  to 
know  it  almost  by  heart.  It  was  full  of  the  author's 
characteristic  acuteness,  and  though  much  criticised 
by  experts  had  its  own  value.  In  particular,  the 
author  pointed  out  many  of  the  current  mistakes  in 
speech  and  print.  If  the  teaching  of  grammar  is  of 
any  use — which  is  very  doubtful — Dr.  Bain  may 
have  done  as  much  as  most  teachers  in  warning 
pupils  off  the  rocks.  Like  everything  he  wrote,  the 
book  was  marked  by  a  certain  originality,  and,  shall 
I  say,  crotchetiness.  Alas !  I  have  forgotten  nearly 
everything  except  a  distinction  he  made  between  the 
use  of  "  who  "  and  "  that,"  and  his  defence  of  the 
use  of  a  preposition  to  close  the  sentence.  Thus: 

188 


DR.   ALEXANDER  BAIN 

"  I  must  use  the  freedom  I  was  born  with,"  and  "  In 
that  dumb  rhetoric  which  you  make  use  of." 

Students  were  thus  prepared  to  view  Professor 
Bain  with  considerable  curiosity  when  the  day  came 
for  donning  the  red  cloak.  We  had  the  advantage 
of  his  teaching  in  our  first  year  when  he  lectured  on 
English.  At  that  time  he  was  by  far  the  most  cele- 
brated man  on  the  professorial  staff.  He  was  per- 
haps the  only  Professor  of  that  period  who  was 
widely  known  beyond  the  north  of  Scotland.  The 
students  had  only  vague  ideas  of  his  friendships  and 
his  fame,  but  they  knew  very  well  that  he  was  some- 
body in  the  world,  and  not  a  mere  provincial 
celebrity.  The  fact  had  due  influence.  They  came 
prepared  to  give  him  a  hearing.  Many  of  them,  like 
myself,  were  too  young  and  too  ignorant.  I  was  not 
fifteen  when  I  sat  down  in  his  class,  and  yet  I  re- 
member keenly  to  this  day  his  appearance  and  man- 
ner. Though  the  favourable  suffrages  of  the  out- 
side world  prepossess  students,  they  invariably 
judge  for  themselves.  None  of  them  had  ever  any 
doubt  about  Bain's  ability.  Whether  you  liked  him 
or  not,  whether  you  followed  him  or  not,  he  was 
plainly  a  very  strong  man  without  a  touch  of  weak- 
ness or  silliness,  equipped  at  every  point,  and  within 
his  limits  master  of  his  subject.  He  had  also  a 
resolute  will,  and  was  a  man  who  had  to  be  obeyed. 
Very  able  men  sometimes  fail  completely  to  keep 
order  in  their  classes.  Clerk  Maxwell,  for  example, 
was  even  a  more  powerful  man  than  Bain,  but  dur- 

189 


THE  KEY   OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

ing  his  professorship  in  Aberdeen  his  classroom  was 
a  scene  of  continual  disorder.  Bain  was  keen,  alert, 
and  commanding;  the  least  disturbance  was  in- 
stantly repressed.  One  pupil,  we  will  call  him  John 
Thomson,  once  proved  unruly,  and  was  instantly 
called  to  order  by  the  Professor. 

"  John  Thomson,"  said  he,  "  are  you  ashamed  of 
yourself?  " 

"  No,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Well,  John  Thomson,  I  will  make  you  ashamed 
of  yourself.  I  fine  you  a  half-crown." 

This  was  the  only  insubordination  I  have  ever 
witnessed  in  Bain's  class.  His  quiet  authority 
dominated  the  room. 

Dr.  Bain  was  not  only  an  able  Professor;  he  was 
also  thoroughly  conscientious.  He  did  his  work  with 
scrupulous  fidelity.  Every  student  could  see  that 
his  course  was  most  carefully  prepared,  and  that  in 
every  detail  of  his  work  he  was  exact  and  reliable. 
This  is  the  quality  which  students  admire  most  in 
a  Professor.  Bain  never  aimed  at  popularity.  He 
never  sought  either  to  be  admired  or  to  be  loved. 
There  was  not  the  faintest  geniality  in  his  manner. 
He  never  in  my  time  made  a  joke,  and  he  kept  him- 
self completely  aloof  from  the  main  body  of  the 
students.  He  simply  did  his  duty,  and  in  this  way 
obtained,  if  not  popularity,  an  excellent  equivalent 
for  it.  The  students  showed  their  admiration  for 
him  years  after  by  twice  electing  him  Lord  Rector 
of  the  University.  Even  then  he  did  not  gush.  He 

190 


DR.   ALEXANDER   BAIN 

did  not  flatter  them;  he  did  not  profess  to  be  over- 
powered with  the  honour;  he  simply  took  up  the 
duties  and  discharged  them  according  to  his  lights. 
I  should  add  that  to  students  who  met  him  in  the 
streets  he  was  particularly  courteous.  He  acknowl- 
edged every  salutation  with  a  smile  and  by  lifting  his 
shabby  hat.  He  was  also  very  polite  in  replying  to 
letters.  More  than  that,  he  took  special  interest  in 
students  who  showed  sympathy  with  his  views  and 
intellectual  power.  Alone  of  all  the  Professors,  he 
invited  the  prizemen  in  his  classes  to  his  house,  where 
they  had  an  opportunity  of  choosing  their  prizes. 
Among  the  books  he  also  included  some  publications 
of  Messrs.  Chambers,  particularly  the  Information 
for  the  People,  to  which  he  himself  had  been  a  con- 
tributor. The  first  prizeman  in  my  year  was  Andrew 
Craik,  who  died  shortly  after  taking  a  high 
wranglership  at  Cambridge.  Bain,  I  remember, 
gave  him  the  prize  with  a  very  kind  smile,  and  said: 
"  The  first  prize  has  been  gained  in  a  very  distin- 
guished and  superior  manner  indeed  by  Andrew 
Craik."  His  assistants  were  employed  in  the  prep- 
aration of  his  books  more  largely  than  may  be 
generally  known.  He  influenced  some  of  them  very 
deeply,  and  they  became  propagandists  of  his  views. 
Among  the  best  loved  of  his  pupils  was  George 
Croom-Robertson,  who  became  Professor  in  Univer- 
sity College,  London.  It  is  not  surprising  that  the 
election  of  an  unknown  young  Scotsman  over  the 
head  of  James  Martineau  created  resentment,  but 

191 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  BLUE  CLOSET 

Groom-Robertson's  ability  and  generosity  of  nature 
subdued  all  opponents,  and  won  the  friendship  of 
Martineau  himself.  Bain  exerted  himself  to  find 
Chairs  for  his  best  scholars,  and  was  not  seldom  suc- 
cessful. It  is  fair  to  say  that  among  the  men  he 
most  helped  were  some  whose  views  on  the  most  im- 
portant of  all  subjects  widely  diverged  from  his  own. 
In  appearance  he  recalled  Democritus  in  Burton's 
Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  though  he  was  not  old  at 
the  time,  "  a  little  wearish  old  man,  somewhat 
melancholy  by  nature,  averse  to  company  in  his 
latter  days,  and  much  given  to  solitude."  His  scanty 
locks  of  hair  were  thriftily  spread  over  his  bald 
cranium.  He  wore  no  moustache,  his  chin  was 
shaven,  and  his  face  was  surrounded  with  thick 
black  hair.  Thus  his  mouth  was  clear.  His  eyes 
and  his  mouth  gave  a  certain  impression  of  weari- 
ness and  disenchantment.  The  face  was  not  sad, 
either  tragically  or  poetically.  Its  expression 
seemed  to  say :  "  Most  things  in  life  are  irksome ; 
teaching  is  irksome  to  me  and  learning  to  you.  But 
we  have  to  do  our  work  without  whining.  I  shall 
do  mine,  and  I  shall  see  that  you  do  yours."  I  am 
anxious  not  to  exaggerate,  and  I  think  my  impres- 
sion is  right.  When  Dr.  Bain  retired  from  the  pro- 
fessorship years  after,  he  told  his  students  that  he 
had  found  it  hard  work,  and  that  it  was  some  relief 
to  be  done  with  it.  There  was  no  joyousness,  no 
enthusiasm  in  his  manner  and  aspect.  He  used  to 
give  a  great  place  to  fear,  and  thought  that  punish- 

192 


DR.   ALEXANDER   BAIN 

ment  In  some  form  was  more  than  three-fourths  of 
the  motive-power  to  virtue  in  the  mass  of  mankind. 
He  had  also  an  acute  sense  of  the  penalties  that  at- 
tached to  folly,  and  spoke  of  imprudence  as  the  most 
radically  incurable  of  all  natural  defects.  To  youth, 
as  may  be  well  imagined,  he  was  a  somewhat  stern 
monitor. 

Dr.  Bain  was  in  a  manner  the  most  impersonal 
teacher  I  ever  knew.  In  one  sense  he  was  personal. 
Whatever  he  taught  he  taught  in  his  own  way  and 
from  his  own  textbooks.  In  essays  and  examinations 
he  liked  to  get  back  what  he  had  given.  But  he 
made  no  direct  use  of  his  own  experiences.  We  knew 
that  he  was  an  intimate  friend  of  John  Stuart  Mill, 
whose  name  in  those  days  was  great  in  the  land,  but 
we  never  knew  it  from  himself.  Of  his  own  feelings 
he  never  spoke.  He  made  hardly  any  reference  to 
other  teachers.  It  was  as  if  he  himself  had  said  on 
each  subject  that  came  up  the  first  word  and  the  last. 
He  never  attempted  to  influence  his  students  re- 
ligiously or  politically.  We  knew,  of  course,  that  he 
had  abandoned  the  Christian  faith,  and  the  acute 
logicians  among  us  probably  saw  that  his  principles, 
followed  out  strictly,  involved  agnosticism.  But  he 
stuck  to  his  text.  He  attended  when  it  was  his  turn 
the  college  chapel.  I  remember  seeing  him  listening 
to  old  Principal  Pirie,  a  man  of  great  native  vigour 
and  very  combative.  Bain  liked  Pirie  and  appre- 
ciated him,  as  he  showed  in  a  very  characteristic 
speech  after  the  Principal's  death.  He  listened  at- 

193 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  BLUE   CLOSET 

tentively  to  the  sermon,  and  joined  heartily  in  the 
singing  of  the  Psalms.  There  never  was  a  classroom 
where  attention  was  more  resolutely  fixed  on  the  sub- 
ject, never  a  classroom  where  fewer  echoes  from  the 
outside  were  heard. 

In  my  first  year,  Bain  was  understood  to  teach 
English  Literature.  He  had  his  own  method  of  in- 
struction, and  very  quaint  it  seemed  at  the  time  and 
seems  now.  He  had  published  a  book  on  Rhetoric, 
with  an  elaborate  analysis  of  the  qualities  of  style, 
and  he  gave  us  each  a  little  pamphlet  of  extracts 
from  the  best  English  writers.  Our  business  was  to 
touch  them  up  till  they  squared  with  the  precepts 
in  the  Professor's  manual.  He  himself  skilfully 
emended  them  one  by  one.  Though  far  too  young 
and  ignorant  to  follow  him  well,  many  of  us  resented 
these  emendations.  For  myself  I  came  up  with  my 
head  full  of  Hazlitt,  and  when  I  heard  Bain  criticis- 
ing Shakespeare  for  his  hyperbolic  style  I  was  in- 
dignant. There  was  one  passage  in  particular,  that 
which  ends 

"  Shall  blow  the  horrid  deed  in  every  eye 
Till  tears  shall  drown  the  wind," 

on  which  Bain  was  very  hard.  Another  was  Words- 
worth's verse: 

"  One  impulse  from  a  vernal  wood 

May  teach  you  more  of  man, 
Of  moral  evil  and  of  good 
Than  all  the  sages  can." 

194 


DR.   ALEXANDER  BAIN 

On  this  Bain  observed :  "  The  average  man  is 
unable  to  cope  with  such  extravagance."  On 
Burns's  lines, 

"  For  nature  made  her  what  she  is 
And  never  made  anither," 

he  remarked :  "  There  is  nothing  in  the  language 
or  in  the  thought  to  redeem  the  extravagance  of  the 
last  two  lines."  He  was  very  funny  on  Tennyson's 
love  poetry.  Thus  on : 

"  Her  feet  have  touch'd  the  meadows, 
And  left  the  daisies  rosy," 

he  observed  that  it  was  a  strong  hyperbole,  but 
that  "  it  retained  a  slight  hold  on  actual  facts  " ! 
The  result  was  that  a  few  of  us  at  any  rate  did  not 
believe  anything  he  said,  and  thought  him  quite  in- 
competent to  speak  on  literature.  That  his  method 
was  entirely  wrong,  and  that  his  criticisms  were 
often  ridiculous,  I  have  no  doubt.  But  the  intelli- 
gent student  might  have  learned  much  from  him,  for 
his  acute  mind  was  always  working.  Thus,  like 
Lowell,  he  disbelieved  entirely  in  the  alleged  objec- 
tivity of  Shakespeare,  and  maintained  that  his  works 
showed  amongst  other  things  a  nature  of  excep- 
tional generosity  and  cheerfulness.  Dr.  Bain  would 
have  commanded  more  confidence  as  a  corrector  if 
he  had  written  better  himself.  Of  his  style  it  may 
justly  be  remarked  that  it  is  singularly  charmless. 
He  was  very  fond  of  that  dangerous  point  the  semi- 

195 


THE   KEY  OF   THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

colon,  and  added  clause  after  clause  till  everything 
dragged.  I  kept  till  lately  an  essay  on  which  he 
wrote  a  criticism  in  red  ink,  which  ran  as  follows: 
"  A  model  of  lucid  statement ;  handwriting  bad ; 
punctuation  very  defective." 

Two  years  later  we  met  him  in  the  class  of  Logic 
and  Psychology.  Of  this  logic  I  remember  nothing. 
His  psychology  was  another  matter.  The  pupil 
must  have  been  dull  indeed  who  would  not  under- 
stand. One  of  his  ablest  scholars  has  explained  in 
the  Times  the  great  work  he  did  on  this  subject.  I 
am  not  in  the  very  least  degree  qualified  to  discuss 
it,  but  I  remember  how  Professor  James  spoke  of 
him  at  Harvard  some  years  ago.  To  some  of  us 
the  manner  in  which  he  connected  philosophy  and 
psychology  was  partly  repellent  and  partly  absurd. 
My  closest  companion  in  these  days,  Robert  Neil, 
afterwards  of  Cambridge,  was  wont  to  quote  one  of 
his  memorable  sentences :  "  The  Organ  of  Smell  is 
the  Nose."  Still,  even  the  dullest  and  the  most  care- 
less could  not  fail  to  see  how  much  power  and 
originality  marked  his  psychological  work.  The 
abler  men  knew  how  serious  were  the  bearings  of  his 
monism,  and  some  of  them  were  driven  into  strong 
antagonism.  Of  these  was  Robertson  Smith.  There 
was  a  legend  that  Robertson  Smith  in  answering 
Bain's  examination  papers  gave  the  replies  he  had 
heard  in  the  class  and  appended  refutations.  How- 
ever this  may  be,  Smith  publicly  said  that  Bain  was 
*he  most  powerful  teacher  he  had  ever  been  under, 

196 


DR.   ALEXANDER   BAIN 

and  that  he  had  not  been  able  to  accept  his  teaching 
in  any  of  its  essentials.  I  do  not  think  Bain  relished 
the  opposition.  When  he  wrote  a  testimonial  for 
Smith,  he  said  that  there  could  be  no  doubt  as 
to  Smith's  extraordinary  powers  of  acquisition. 
Whether  those  powers  of  acquisition  were  accom- 
panied by  equal  powers  of  origination  remained  to 
be  seen.  Smith  rather  resented  the  insinuation. 
When  I  go  back  I  can  see  that  we  were  not  old 
enough  to  understand  the  shrewd,  practical  wisdom 
evinced  in  Bain's  comments  on  life.  One  of  his 
points  I  clearly  recollect  was  his  insistence  on  the 
fact  that  no  triumph  is  ever  complete.  There  was 
always  something  to  mar  it. 

Bain's  students  saw  much  of  him,  and  much  that 
was  very  noble,  but  they  did  not  see  the  best.  The 
testimony  of  those  brought  into  intimate  relations 
with  him  proved  that  under  his  reserved  and  cold  ex- 
terior there  burned  a  nature  of  great  intensity  and 
tenderness.  Professor  Blaikie,  who  was  his  fellow- 
student,  describes  him  in  his  Autobiography  as  sim- 
ple, kindly,  and  remarkable  for  the  calmness  of  his 
mind  and  manner.  Dr.  Bain  was  brought  up  under 
the  ministry  of  the  famous  Dr.  Kidd,  the  chief 
evangelical  preacher  in  the  Aberdeen  of  his  day. 
To  Dr.  Stark's  Life  of  Dr.  Kidd  Dr.  Bain  contrib- 
utes a  most  interesting  paper  in  which  he  refers 
particularly  to  the  old  preacher's  prayers  and  says: 
"  I  can  only  choose  a  few  illustrative  points  which 
have  clung  to  my  memory.  His  Baptismal  prayer 

197 


THE   KEY  OF  THE  BLUE  CLOSET 

was  fixed  into  a  set  form,  but  yet  the  touches  it  con- 
tained seemed  never  to  tire  by  repetition.  Two  pas- 
sages in  particular  I  am  able  to  quote.  The  first  was 
returning  thanks  to  God  *  for  His  goodness  to  the 
mother  in  the  time  of  nature's  sorrow,'  with  a  peti- 
tion to  perfect  her  recovery.  More  striking  still  was 
the  passage  where  he  prayed  for  '  all  who  have  ever 
been  baptized  in  this  place,'  adding,  '  Wherever 
they  are,  by  sea  or  by  land,  we  follow  them  with  our 
prayers,  that  none  of  them  may  be  lost  on  the  morn- 
ing of  the  great  Day.'  "  Another  fellow-student  of 
Bain's  was  the  beloved  David  Masson,  who  happily 
survives  him.  Their  friendship  continued  firm  and 
fast  through  all  the  years. 


198 


CHAPTER  XXII 

CONCERNING    SPECTACLES 

WHEN  you  detect  in  yourself  an  inability  to  dis- 
tinguish between  3  and  8  when  the  figures  are  small, 
when  you  loathe  increasingly  the  consultation  of 
railway  time-tables,  when  you  are  inclined  to  pass 
over  the  small  print  in  the  newspapers,  your  friends 
will  advise  you  to  consider  the  propriety  of  using 
spectacles.  They  may  even  declare  that  delay  in 
getting  spectacles  when  they  are  needed  leads  to 
great  confusion  of  mind  and  to  feeble  and  tottering 
gait. 

Whether  we  need  spectacles  or  not  for  the  bodily 
eyes,  I  am  sure  we  need  them  for  the  eyes  of  the 
mind.  If  we  were  perfect  we  should  not  need  them. 
Our  vision  would  then  be  true;  we  should  be  able  to 
judge  the  world.  As  things  are,  our  general  im- 
perfection means  among  many  other  things  an  im- 
perfection in  vision,  and  an  incapacity  to  give 
righteous  judgment.  The  attempt  to  look  at  nature 
and  human  nature  with  the  naked  eye  is  bound  to 
fail.  It  is  told  of  Jacques  Balmat,  the  man  who  first 
climbed  Mont  Blanc,  that  he  went  without  spec- 
tacles. Nothing  much  was  known  about  climbing 
then.  It  was  not  understood  how  the  snows  affected 
the  sight.  When  Balmat  came  down  he  found  him- 

199 


THE  KEY  OF  THE   BLUE  CLOSET 

self  almost  blind,  and  his  skin  was  peeling  off  his 
face,  his  eyes  were  quite  bloodshot,  and  people 
hardly  knew  him.  The  next  explorers  took  spec- 
tacles, and  ever  since  mountain  spectacles  have  been 
one  of  the  trades  of  Switzerland.  The  spectacled 
vision  is  the  only  vision  which  gives  you  the  full  view 
of  the  mountain.  There  is  a  pretty  story  at  the  be- 
ginning of  Kim,  which  tells  how  the  curator,  who  is 
understood  to  represent  Mr.  Kipling's  father,  pre- 
sented the  Lama  with  a  pair  of  spectacles.  The 
Lama  had  heavily  scraped  horn  spectacles.  But 
when  he  put  on  the  new  pair,  he  exclaimed,  "  A 
feather !  A  very  feather  upon  the  face !  "  The  old 
man  turned  his  face  delightedly,  and  wrinkled  up  his 
nose.  "  How  scarcely  do  I  feel  them !  How  clearly 
do  I  see!" 

Dean  Swift  began  by  looking  at  human  nature 
with  the  naked  eye,  and  he  ended  just  as  Balmat 
ended,  with  bloodshot  and  almost  blind  eyes.  In 
his  able  little  book  on  Thackeray,  Mr.  Charles  Whib- 
ley  criticises  severely  Thackeray's  lecture  on  Swift 
as  a  blot  upon  his  literary  reputation.  Thackeray 
asked,  "  What  fever  was  boiling  in  him  that  he 
should  see  the  world  bloodshot  ? "  Mr.  Whibley 
scarcely  does  justice  to  Thackeray,  for  Thackeray 
acknowledges  that  Swift  "  was  a  reverent  and  pious 
spirit — for  Swift  could  love  and  could  pray. 
Through  the  storms  and  tempests  of  his  furious 
mind  the  stars  of  religion  and  love  broke  out  in  the 
blue,  shining  securely,  though  hidden  by  the  driving 

200 


CONCERNING    SPECTACLES 

clouds  and  the  maddened  hurricane  of  his  life." 
But  what  Swift  saw  was  the  worthlessness  of  all 
mankind,  the  pettiness,  cruelty,  pride,  imbecility,  the 
general  vanity,  the  foolish  pretensions,  the  mock 
greatness,  the  pompous  dulness,  the  mean  men,  the 
base  successes.  In  a  manner  no  one  saw  more  deeply 
and  more  keenly,  and  yet  no  one  more  utterly  missed 
the  way  and  the  truth. 

On  the  eyes  of  the  soul  we  must  put  the  spectacles 
of  charity — to  use  a  word  which  has  a  wide  stretch 
of  meaning.  To  begin  with  its  full  sense  of  love. 
There  is  nothing  more  derided  than  the  raptures  of 
a  young  affection.  But  it  may  be  doubted  whether 
any  people  in  the  world  are  so  wise  as  young,  true 
lovers.  They  see  the  best  in  each  other,  that  best 
which  may  in  the  end  be  victorious  over  all  that  mars 
and  flaws  it,  and  outlast  every  evil  element.  For 
love  not  only  sees,  but  draws  out.  It  brings  into 
action  the  highest  energies  of  the  soul,  and  calls 
forth  its  deep  and  shrouded  beauties.  They  are 
happy  indeed  who  maintain  that  vision  through  the 
tests  and  trials  of  life.  You  will  remember  Emer- 
son's significant  parable,  Each  and  All. 

"  The  lover  watched  his  graceful  maid, 
As  'mid  the  virgin  train  she  strayed, 
Nor  knew  her  beauty's  best  attire 
Was  woven  still  by  the  snow-white  choir. 
At  last  she  came  to  his  hermitage, 
Like  the  bird  from  the  woodlands  to  the  cage: — 
The  gay  enchantment  was  undone, 
A  gentle  wife,  but  fairy  none." 

201 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  BLUE  CLOSET 

That  is  not  the  end  of  the  story  if  it  is  a  story  of 
true  love.  "  Love  is  believing,  and  the  best  is 
truest." 

To  look  aright  on  human  beings  we  must  wear 
the  spectacles  of  an  indulgent  kindliness.  It  is  in 
this  way  we  shall  get  the  best  and  the  most  out  of 
the  world.  There  is  a  mawkish,  silly,  and  indecent 
charity,  but  there  are  those  who  without  folly  and 
without  untruth  can  think  of  what  may  be  pleaded 
in  mitigation  of  the  worst  offenders.  Dickens  de- 
lighted to  describe  such  people,  but  he  never  sur- 
passed his  picture  of  Traddles  in  David  Copperfield. 
When  Traddles  chose  the  dearest  girl  in  the  world 
none  of  her  sisters  could  endure  the  thought  of  her 
ever  being  married.  In  particular,  Sarah,  who  had 
something  the  matter  with  her  spine,  objected 
violently. 

"  *  She  clenched  both  her  hands,'  said  Traddles ; 
'  shut  her  eyes ;  turned  lead-colour ;  became  per- 
fectly stiff;  and  took  nothing  for  two  days  but 
toast  and  water  administered  with  a  teaspoon.' 

"  *  What  a  very  unpleasant  girl,'  remarked  David 
Copperfield. 

"  *  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Copperfield,'  said 
Traddles.  *  She  is  a  very  charming  girl,  but  she 
had  «,  great  deal  of  feeling.' '  Serious  also  was  the 
grief  of  her  mother,  which  mounted  from  her  legs 
into  her  chest,  and  then  into  her  head.  "  As  I  men- 
tioned on  a  former  occasion,  she  is  a  very  superior 
woman,  but  has  lost  the  use  of  her  limbs.  Whatever 


CONCERNING    SPECTACLES 

occurs  to  harass  her  usually  settles  In  her  legs,  but 
on  this  occasion  it  mounted  to  the  chest,  and  then 
to  the  head,  and  in  short,  pervaded  the  whole  sys- 
tem in  a  most  alarming  manner.  However,  they 
brought  her  through  it  by  unremitting  and  affec- 
tionate attention." 

But  the  triumph  of  Traddles'  charity  is  his  re- 
mark on  the  detestable  Uriah  Heep. 

"  (  He  is  a  monster  of  meanness,'  said  my  aunt. 

"  *  Really,  I  don't  know  about  that,'  observed 
Traddles,  thoughtfully.  '  Many  people  can  be  very 
mean  when  they  give  their  minds  to  it.' ' 

The  observation,  perhaps,  was  in  excess.  Nor 
should  I  care  to  defend  Deacon  Solomon  Rising,  of 
Connecticut.  The  deacon  was  giving  evidence  about 
Mr.  Elijah  Hitchcock,  a  constable  whose  character 
was  under  scrutiny. 

"  *  Deacon  Solomon  Rising,'  said  the  judge,  '  do 
you  think  Mr.  Hitchcock  is  a  dishonest  man? ' 

"  *  Oh,  no,  sir,  not  by  any  means.' 

"  *  Well,  do  you  think  that  he  is  a  mean  man?  ' 

"  *  Well,  with  regard  to  that,'  said  the  deacon,  a 
little  more  deliberately,  *  I  may  say  that  I  do  not 
really  think  he  is  a  mean  man;  I  have  sometimes 
thought  he  was  what  you  might  call  a  keerf ul  man — 
a  prudent  man,  so  to  speak.' 

"  *  What  do  you  mean  by  a  prudent  man?  ' 

" '  Well,  I  mean  this,  that  at  one  time  he  had  an 
execution  for  four  dollars  against  the  old  widow 
Witter  back  here,  and  he  went  up  to  her  house,  and 

203 


THE   KEY   OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

levied  on  a  lot  of  ducks,  and  he  chased  them  ducks 
one  at  a  time  round  the  house  pooty  much  all  day, 
and  every  time  he  catched  a  duck  he'd  set  right  down 
and  wring  its  neck,  and  charge  mileage,  and  the 
mileage  amounted  to  more  than  the  debt.  Nothing 
mean  about  it  as  I  know  of,  but  I  always  thought 
that  Mr.  Hitchcock  was  a  very  prudent  man.' ' 

It  is  very  wise  to  use  spectacles  in  contemplating 
your  surroundings  and  your  possessions.  I  have 
always  liked  very  much  the  Spaniard  who  was  par- 
tial to  cherries,  and  put  on  spectacles  to  eat  them  in 
order  that  they  might  look  bigger.  There  is  gen- 
erally something  on  which  the  heart  may  fasten,  even 
in  the  bleakest  and  most  uncongenial  sphere.  Long 
ago  I  read  of  a  Scottish  minister  who  had  an  ugly 
little  church.  The  church,  however,  boasted  a  beau- 
tiful Norman  door.  The  minister  took  such  pride 
in  the  door,  that  he  came  to  believe  all  the  building 
as  fair  as  the  entrance,  and  to  consider  himself  more 
highly  favoured  than  his  brethren  in  city  cathedrals. 
Great  Expectations,  that  late  novel  in  which  Dickens 
so  marvellously  recovered  his  early  form,  has  few 
more  delightful  passages  than  the  story  of  Pip's 
visit  to  Mr.  Wemmick's  cottage  at  Walworth.  The 
house  was  a  little  wooden  cottage  in  the  midst  of 
plots  of  garden,  and  the  top  of  it  was  cut  out  and 
painted  like  a  battery  mounted  with  guns.  It  had 
a  real  flagstaff,  and  on  Sundays  Wemmick  ran  up 
a  real  flag.  "  Then  look  here,  after  I  have  crossed 
this  bridge  I  hoist  it  up  so — and  cut  off  the  com- 

204 


CONCERNING    SPECTACLES 

munication."  The  bridge  was  a  plank,  and  It  crossed 
a  chasm  about  four  feet  wide  and  two  deep.  "  But 
it  was  very  pleasing  to  see  the  pride  with  which  he 
hoisted  it  up  and  made  it  fast ;  smiling  as  he  did  so 
with  a  relish,  and  not  merely  mechanically."  There 
was  a  gun  which  was  fired  at  nine  o'clock  every 
night,  Greenwich  time.  At  the  back  there  was  a  pig, 
and  there  were  also  fowls  and  rabbits.  Wemmick's 
aged  father  was  even  more  proud  of  it  than  his  son. 
"  This  is  a  fine  place  of  my  son's,  sir,"  cried  the  old 
man,  while  I  nodded  as  hard  as  I  possibly  could. 
"  This  is  a  pretty  pleasure-ground,  sir.  This  spot 
and  the  beautiful  works  upon  it  ought  to  be  kept 
together  by  the  Nation  after  my  son's  time  for  the 
people's  enjoyment."  Wemmick  explained  to  Pip, 
as  he  smoked  a  pipe,  that  it  had  taken  him  a  good 
many  years  to  bring  the  property  up  to  its  present 
pitch  of  perfection.  We  smile  at  this,  but  it  would 
be  well  for  most  of  us  that  we  could  see  our  pos-' 
sessions  as  Wemmick  saw  his. 

I  might  speak  of  the  spectacles  of  prejudice  and 
of  fear,  but  it  is  hardly  needful.  It  is  often  a  real 
necessity  to  lay  the  spectacles  of  prejudice  aside  in 
judging  the  work  of  another.  I  do  not  say  that  we 
are  to  forget  a  man's  past  in  estimating  his  present. 
That  is  impossible,  but  I  am  certain  that  there  is  no 
more  fruitful  cause  of  misery  and  mischief  and  in- 
justice than  prejudice.  We  need  to  have  a  special 
fear  of  ourselves  when  we  come  to  speak  or  write  of 
those  who  have  opposed  us,  and  perhaps  injured  us. 

205 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  BLUE   CLOSET 

Then  the  spectacles  of  fear  that  are  always  looking 
into  the  future  and  seeing  a  lion  in  every  mouse 
should  be  smashed  in  pieces.  We  cannot  see  into  the 
future,  and  the  best  provision  we  can  make  for  it 
is  to  live  the  days  wisely  as  they  pass. 

I  do  not  forget  that  the  spectacles  of  partiality, 
and  even  of  love,  may  sometimes  deceive  us.  They 
are  most  deceiving,  perhaps,  in  the  case  of  children. 
Outsiders  are  often  compelled  to  see  that  parents 
are  cruelly  blind  to  their  children's  faults  and  needs. 
Nor  is  there  any  such  thing  as  true  love  without  the 
capacity  for  moral  indignation.  There  is  no  value 
in  praise  from  some  men.  They  cannot  blame,  and 
there  is  no  worth  in  the  praise  of  those  who  cannot 
blame  on  due  cause  shown.  The  grossly  amiable 
man  usually  makes  a  failure  of  his  life.  Sydney 
Smith  says  that  Sir  James  Mackintosh's  chief  foible 
was  indiscriminate  praise.  He  amused  himself  once 
in  writing  a  termination  of  a  speech  for  Mackintosh. 
It  ran  thus: — 

"'It  is  impossible  to  conclude  these  observations  without 
expressing  the  obligations  I  am  under  to  a  person  in  a  much 
more  humble  scene  of  life, — I  mean,  sir,  the  hackney-coach- 
man by  whom  I  have  been  driven  to  this  meeting.  To  pass 
safely  through  the  streets  of  a  crowded  metropolis  must  re- 
quire, on  the  part  of  the  driver,  no  common  assemblage  of 
qualities.  He  must  have  caution  without  timidity,  activity 
without  precipitation,  and  courage  without  rashness;  he  must 
have  a  clear  perception  of  his  object,  and  a  dexterous  use  of 
his  means.  I  can  safely  say  of  the  individual  in  question,  that, 
for  a  moderate  reward,  he  has  displayed  unwearied  skill;  and 
to  him  I  shall  never  forget  that  I  owe  un fractured  integrity  of 

206 


CONCERNING    SPECTACLES 

limb,  exemption  from  pain,  and  perhaps  prolongation  of  exist- 
ence. 

" '  Nor  can  I  pass  over  the  encouraging  cheerfulness  with 
which  I  was  received  by  the  waiter,  nor  the  useful  blaze  of 
light  communicated  by  the  link-boys,  as  I  descended  from  the 
carriage.  It  was  with  no  common  pleasure  that  I  remarked 
in  these  men,  not  the  mercenary  bustle  of  venal  service,  but 
the  genuine  eifusions  of  untutored  benevolence:  not  the 
rapacity  of  subordinate  agency,  but  the  alacrity  of  humble 
friendship.  What  may  not  be  said  of  a  country  where  all  the 
little  accidents  of  life  bring  forth  the  hidden  qualities  of  the 
heart, — where  her  vehicles  are  driven,  her  streets  illumined, 
and  her  bells  answered,  by  men  teeming  with  all  the  refine- 
ments of  civilised  life? 

" '  I  cannot  conclude,  sir,  without  thanking  you  for  the  very 
clear  and  distinct  manner  in  which  you  have  announced  the 
proposition  on  which  we  are  to  vote.  It  is  but  common 
justice  to  add,  that  public  assemblies  rarely  witness  articula- 
tion so  perfect,  language  so  select,  and  a  manner  so  eminently 
remarkable  for  everything  that  is  kind,  impartial,  and  just.'  " 


207 


THE    ART    OF    PACKING 

THE  art  of  packing  is  confessedly  rare  and  difficult, 
and  I  never  mastered  it.  In  the  old  days  when  I  had 
to  do  my  best,  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  brute 
force.  A  bag  or  a  trunk  was  a  thing  to  be  subdued 
and  overcome.  When  a  student,  I  purchased  as 
large  a  box  as  I  could  afford,  and  when  the  end  of 
the  session  arrived  I  put  everything  into  my  box, 
and  then  sat  down  on  it  till  it  was  brought  to  reason. 
The  results  were  not  entirely  satisfactory,  but  they 
were  the  best  I  could  achieve. 

Later  on  my  difficulties  increased.  Like  most  men 
I  have  an  ineradicable  prejudice  against  luggage. 
When  I  put  a  bag  or  a  box  into  the  luggage  van  it 
is  with  small  hope  of  ever  seeing  it  again.  For  ten 
minutes  after  in  the  railway  carriage  I  think  of  how 
I  shall  be  able  to  get  on  if  my  luggage  vanishes  into 
space.  For  those  who  cannot  learn  to  pack,  the  one 
resource  is  to  get  some  one  who  will  pack  for  them. 
Wonderful  is  the  competency  of  some  packers. 
They  put  in  everything  you  want,  and  nothing  else. 
They  put  it  in  small  compass.  They  pack  it  in  such 
a  way  that  it  emerges  uninjured.  I  praise,  and 
admire,  and  thank  them.  If  there  is  trouble  it  comes 
in  at  the  other  end.  When  you  have  to  return  you 

208 


THE  ART  OF  PACKING 

may  find,  if  left  alone,  that  you  cannot  get  the 
things  back  into  their  place.  In  that  case  you  will 
be  followed  for  days  after  your  return  by  mysterious 
parcels  sent  from  the  hotel.  This  is  humiliating 
enough,  but  perhaps  you  cannot  help  it.  A  delight- 
ful writer  whose  hand,  alas !  is  cold  to-day  has 
described  the  adventures  of  a  husband  and  wife  who 
agreed  on  their  honeymoon  to  have  their  luggage 
put  together.  The  lady  had  her  preferences,  and 
so  had  the  gentleman.  She  wished  to  have  with  her 
five  paint  boxes,  six  sketch-books,  two  cameras,  three 
kodaks,  a  butterfly  net  and  box,  a  camp  stool,  a 
formidable  array  of  hats,  three  sunshades  of  differ- 
ent colours,  and  a  collection  of  rugs  and  wraps  fit 
for  the  Arctic  regions.  They  were  going  to  the 
Italian  Lakes  at  the  hottest  time  of  the  year.  The 
gentleman  despised  all  these  things,  but  he  could  not 
get  on  without  a  large  assortment  of  boots  and 
shoes,  and  a  series  of  volumes  on  the  geological 
strata  of  the  Alps  and  the  Renaissance  in  Lom- 
bardy.  "  Trouble  followed,"  as  the  theological  stu- 
dent said  in  summarising  the  experience  of  Jonah. 
At  the  end  of  the  journey,  the  lady  found  her  best 
comb  smashed,  a  precious  silver  mirror  shivered  to 
atoms,  her  dresses  crushed,  and  her  hats  reduced  to 
jellies. 

I  thought  about  my  many  adventures  in  packing 
the  other  day  when  I  was  dictating  some  articles 
for  a  halfpenny  paper.  In  these  journals  a  thou- 
sand words  is  the  limit,  and  if  you  can  get  your 

203 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  BLUE  CLOSET 

matter  into  five  hundred  words,  so  much  the  better. 
Every  well-edited  journal  seeks  to  have  a  justifi- 
cation for  everything  it  prints.  Many  people  fancy 
that  editors  have  difficulty  in  filling  their  columns. 
If  they  have,  it  is  a  proof  that  they  are  incompe- 
tent. Every  journal  in  a  healthy  state  is  compelled 
te  reject  constantly  articles  with  a  good  claim  to 
publication.  But  in  a  halfpenny  daily,  where  many 
subjects  must  be  touched,  the  problem  is  acute.  It 
is  a  question  of  packing.  In  the  first  place,  no 
article  should  be  packed  in  it  that  is  not  needed. 
Every  paragraph  should  be  its  own  justification. 
Then  the  articles  should  be  skilfully  packed,  and 
not  rumpled  and  crushed.  It  is  no  credit  to  get 
many  things  into  a  small  bag  if  they  all  emerge 
damaged.  Many  writers  would  find  it  useful  to  take 
a  thousand  words  of  their  writing  and  reduce  the 
thousand  to  five  hundred  without  impairing  the 
effect.  It  is  not  easy  with  writing  that  is  worth  any- 
thing. A  theological  professor,  criticising  a  stu- 
dent's sermon,  said  that  the  half  of  it  had  better  be 
omitted,  and  it  did  not  matter  which  half.  You  can- 
not condense  your  article  simply  by  cutting  it  in 
two.  You  must  rewrite  it  upon  another  scale.  It  is 
not  enough  to  be  brief.  You  must  be  interesting, 
and  it  is  possible  and  very  easy  to  be  both  brief  and 
tedious.  The  editing  of  the  ideal  halfpenny  news- 
paper, simple  as  it  seems  to  the  outsider,  is  in  reality 
as  difficult  as  the  editing  of  the  Times,  for  every 
headed  paragraph,  however  short,  is  a  study  in  the 

210 


THE  ART  OF  PACKING 

art  of  condensation.  I  quite  understand  that  certain 
subjects  cannot  be  satisfactorily  dealt  with  in  very 
brief  articles  or  paragraphs.  Nevertheless,  the  man 
who  runs  to  length  should  suspect  himself.  There 
are  preachers  who  think  that  the  religion  of  the 
country  is  dying  out  because  people  object  to  ser- 
mons an  hour  long.  But  the  old  story  comes  up 
irresistibly.  If  a  man  cannot  strike  oil  in  twenty 
minutes,  he  had  better  cease  boring. 

This  leads  me  to  say  that  the  art  of  packing  is 
the  art  of  life.  What  shall  we  do  with  the  day? 
Here  are  the  twelve  hours  before  us.  What  work 
can  we  put  into  them?  A  very  favourite  theme  of 
Addison's  Spectator  was  the  waste  of  the  day,  espe- 
cially by  fine  ladies.  This  is  a  specimen: 

Saturday. — Rose  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Sat  down 
to  my  toilette. 

From  eight  to  nine.  Shifted  a  patch  for  half  an  hour 
before  I  could  determine  it.  Fixed  it  above  my  left  eye- 
brow. 

From  nine  to  twelve.    Drank  my  tea  and  dressed. 

From  twelve  to  two.  At  chapel.  A  great  deal  of  good  com- 
pany. Mem. — The  third  air  in  the  new  opera.  Lady  Blithe 
dressed  frightfully. 

From  three  to  four.  Dined.  Miss  Kitty  called  upon  me  to 
go  to  the  opera  before  I  was  risen  from  table. 

From  dinner  to  six.  Drank  tea.  Turned  off  a  footman  for 
being  rude  to  Veny. 

Six  o'clock.  Went  to  the  opera.  I  did  not  see  Mr.  Froth 
till  the  beginning  of  the  second  act.  Mr.  Froth  talked  to  a 
gentleman  in  a  black  wig;  bowed  to  a  lady  in  the  front  box. 
Mr.  Froth  and  his  friend  clapped  Nicolini  in  the  third  act. 
Mr.  Froth  cried  out  '  Ancora.'  Mr.  Froth  led  me  to  my  chair. 
I  think  he  squeezed  my  hand. 


THE   KEY   OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

Eleven  at  night.     Went  to  bed.     Melancholy  dreams.    Me- 
thought  Nicolini  said  he  was  Mr.  Froth. 
Sunday. — Indisposed. 

There  are  people  who  never  waste  a  moment,  who 
get  up  very  early,  and  have  done  much  work  by 
breakfast,  who  are  always  pulling  out  pen,  pencil, 
or  needle,  while  others  seem  unemployed.  I  remem- 
ber Robertson  Smith  telling  me  that  he  learned 
Italian  when  he  was  dressing.  This  perhaps  may  be 
overdone.  There  may  be  seasons  and  spaces  which 
it  is  not  worth  while  to  fill  with  an  occupation.  Is 
it  worth  while  to  read  at  meals  or  out  of  doors?  I 
think  not,  unless  one  is  very  lonely  indeed.  Haydon, 
the  painter,  tells  us  a  pleasant  story  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott.  Sir  Walter  went  to  see  a  picture  of  Hay- 
don's  which  was  on  view.  He  arrived  before  the  door 
was  open,  and  was  told  that  the  man  would  not  be 
long  in  coming.  He  quietly  sat  down  and  waited. 
Haydon  found  him  thus,  and  delightedly  records  it 
as  a  beautiful  trait  of  this  great  genius.  It  was  a 
beautiful  trait,  but  many  of  us  would  have  tried  to 
fill  up  the  short  interval  somehow. 

The  truth  is  that  in  order  to  give  out  you  must 
take  in,  and  that  the  time  spent  in  absorbing  is  just 
as  necessary  and  just  as  well  spent  as  the  time  spent 
in  testifying.  The  other  day  I  was  in  a  country 
town,  and  took  out  of  the  circulating  library  two 
books  I  had  not  seen  for  years — the  Life  of  Bishop 
Wilberforce  and  the  Life  of  Dean  Hook.  Both  were 
indefatigable  men.  Of  Wilberforce  it  was  said 


THE  ART  OF  PACKING 

that  he  could  write  two  letters  at  once,  one  with  his 
left  hand  and  the  other  with  his  right.  Also  it  is 
said  that  he  could  dictate  seven  letters  at  one  and 
the  same  time.  I  do  not  believe  these  stories,  but 
many  people  do  believe  them.  Wilberforce  was  an 
early  riser,  he  was  always  writing,  always  preach- 
ing, always  travelling,  and  being  a  man  of  fine 
gifts,  he  won  a  great  position.  Yet  his  life  on  the 
whole  was  impaired  and  disappointed.  He  never 
succeeded  in  achieving  the  place  of  his  ambition. 
He  saw  over  and  over  again  men  preferred  to  him 
who  were  conspicuously  his  inferiors.  He  came 
under  a  general  suspicion  of  insincerity.  The  Queen 
suspected  him,  and  so  did  many  of  her  subjects. 
Yet  I  think  unprejudiced  readers  of  his  letters  and 
journals  will  see  that  in  intention  he  was  always 
honest.  What  injured  him  was  that  he  knew  noth- 
ing. He  read  practically  nothing,  he  was  not  in  any 
sense  a  scholar;  he  thought  the  time  spent  in  study 
was  wasted  time.  In  spite  of  his  ignorance  he  rushed 
headlong  into  controversies  where  no  man  can  do 
any  good  who  is  not  equipped  with  the  results  of 
patient  and  scholarly  investigation.  Thus  he  as- 
saulted the  authors  of  Essay  and  Reviews  in  the 
Quarterly,  and  declared  them  enemies  of  the  Chris- 
tian faith.  In  the  same  periodical  he  made  a  furious 
onslaught  on  Darwin.  It  is  safe  to  say  that  Wil- 
berforce had  given  moments  to  science  where  Dar- 
win had  given  days,  and  his  article  is  simply  pre- 
sumptuous nonsense.  He  rushed  into  a  fray  about 


THE   KEY   OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

Bishop  Hampden,  and  it  turned  out  in  the  end  that 
he  had  not  read  Hampden's  books.  Having  got  into 
false  positions,  he  had  to  get  out  of  them  as  best  he 
could,  and  he  did  not  get  out  of  them  well.  How 
much  more  Wilberforce  would  have  accomplished  if 
he  had  been  content  to  be  quiet  at  times !  Dean 
Hook  was  another  example  of  immense  and  pro- 
longed industry.  He,  too,  was  an  early  riser.  He 
sometimes  wrote  three  sermons  in  one  day.  Hook 
was  a  reader  as  well  as  a  writer,  and  he  has  left  many 
books  behind  him,  but  I  doubt  whether  any  of  them 
will  live.  There  was  no  touch  of  intellectual  dis- 
tinction about  him,  nothing  at  all  of  the  saving 
grace  of  style.  Honest,  laborious,  bold,  ambitious, 
he  did  good  and  even  great  work  in  his  day,  perhaps 
the  best  work  that  he  could  accomplish,  and  yet  one 
imagines  that  under  conditions  of  more  leisure  and 
less  absorption  he  might  have  done  something  of  an- 
other kind.  For  myself,  I  particularly  dislike  people 
who  profess  to  be  busy,  and  seem  to  be  hurried,  peo- 
ple who  look  at  the  clock  when  you  visit  them,  or 
when  they  visit  you.  We  must  not  try  to  pack  life 
too  close. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

"  WORK-DRUNKENNESS  " 

AMONG  the  most  interesting  passages  in  Herbert 
Spencer's  Autobiography  are  those  in  which  he  ex- 
pounds the  ethics  of  work.  Spencer  was  of  opinion 
that  many  people  were  mad  about  work,  that  they 
habitually  overworked  themselves  in  a  way  that  sad- 
dened and  shortened  their  lives.  Thus  he  remon- 
strates very  strongly  with  his  American  friend 
Youmans  for  his  tendency  to  undue  self-sacrifice. 
Youmans  came  over  to  this  country  to  recruit,  and 
found  himself  no  better  when  he  returned  to  America. 
He  wrote  despondently  to  Spencer,  who  answered 
him  in  pungent  terms.  "  That  you  will  either  cut 
short  your  life  or  incapacitate  yourself  is  an  infer- 
ence one  cannot  avoid  drawing;  seeing  that  in  your 
case,  as  in  a  host  of  other  cases,  experience  seems 
to  have  not  the  slightest  effect.  It  is  a  kind  of  work- 
drunkenness,  and  you  seem  to  be  no  more  able  to 
resist  the  temptation  than  the  dipsomaniac  resists 
alcohol.  Excuse  my  strong  expressions.  I  use  them 
in  the  hope  that  they  may  do  some  good,  though  it 
is  a  very  faint  hope.  The  only  course  that  could 
give  me  any  confidence  that  you  will  not  bring  your 
career  of  usefulness  to  a  premature  close  would  be  to 
learn  that  you  had  put  yourself  under  the  despotic 


THE   KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

control  of  your  sister;  and  even  if  you  did  this,  I 
suspect  you  would  quickly  break  the  agreement 
under  the  pressure  of  some  fancied  necessity,  as 
though  fulfilment  of  some  passing  purpose  was 
necessary  and  maintenance  of  life  unnecessary ! 
What  is  the  use  of  all  this  propagation  of  knowledge 
if  it  is  to  end  in  such  results?  "  Spencer  grimly  re- 
marks that  his  anticipation  was  fulfilled.  Youmans 
brought  his  life  to  a  premature  close.  "  Though  he 
reached  the  age  of  sixty-six,  yet  that  his  death  at 
that  age  was  premature  is  shown  by  the  fact  that 
both  his  parents  were  then  alive." 

Almost  from  the  beginning  of  his  career  Spencer 
was  deliberately  and  willingly  idle  at  times.  His 
danger,  as  he  conceived  it,  was  not  that  of  doing  too 
little,  but  that  of  doing  too  much.  He  considered 
that  men  ought  to  raise  more  often  the  question,  Is 
the  game  worth  the  candle?  Will  what  is  gained 
duly  compensate  for  what  must  be  paid?  Let 
means  and  ends  be  weighed.  Life  is  not  for  work, 
but  work  is  for  life,  and  when  it  is  carried  to  the 
extent  of  undermining  life  or  unduly  absorbing  it, 
work  is  not  praiseworthy,  but  blameworthy.  The 
progress  of  mankind  should  liberate  life  more  and 
more  from  mere  toil,  and  make  it  available  for  relaxa- 
tion, for  pleasurable  culture,  for  aesthetic  gratifi- 
cation, for  travel,  for  games.  But  for  most  people 
the  path  of  duty  is  identified  with  devotion  to  work, 
and  you  may  often  see  a  busy  man,  half  invalided  by 
ceaseless  toil,  persist,  in  spite  of  the  expostulations 

216 


"  WORK-DRUNKENNESS  " 

of  his  family  and  friends,  in  daily  making  himself 
worse  by  over-application.  Spencer  expressed  the 
wish  that  he  had  a  keeper  who  would  restrain  him 
when  he  was  doing  too  much.  As  might  be  expected, 
he  gravely  disapproved  of  American  energy.  He 
considered  that  the  fault  of  American  life  was  an 
over-devotion  to  work,  and  he  believed  that  the 
future  had  in  store  a  new  ideal,  differing  as  much 
from  the  present  ideal  of  industrialism  as  that  ideal 
differs  from  past  ideals  of  militancy. 

Undoubtedly  the  subject  is  worth  pondering. 
Many  of  us  in  these  strenuous  days  have  to  suffer 
the  remonstrances  of  kind  friends  who  declare  we 
are  working  too  hard.  They  cannot  understand  why 
we  should  not  take  things  in  moderation,  and  un- 
doubtedly there  is  something  in  what  they  say. 
There  are  laws  of  life  which  cannot  be  neglected  with 
impunity.  It  is  a  poor  heart  that  never  rejoices;  it 
is  a  poor  life  into  which  no  sunshine  falls.  When  we 
are  loaded  day  by  day  with  duties  and  obligations 
which  we  have  just  strength  enough  to  perform, 
which  fill  up  every  available  minute,  when  we  never 
travel,  never  rest,  never  relax  ourselves  in  the  com- 
pany of  friends,  we  are  not  living  as  we  ought  to 
live. 

There  must  be  an  enjoyment  of  life  in  order  to 
attain  its  full  efficiency ;  there  must  be  more  than 
a  ceremonious  recognition  of  the  laws  of  health. 
Above  all,  there  must  be  a  certain  rest  of  soul.  Even 
in  the  midst  of  work  we  should  be  able  to  escape  in 


thought  from  the  noise  and  confusion  of  the  battle, 
and  possess  ourselves  in  peace. 

Yet  I  am  persuaded  that  even  now  there  is  not 
half  so  much  danger  of  overwork  as  of  underwork. 
And  also  that  the  life  which  leans  to  the  first  is  at 
once  more  fruitful  and  more  enjoying  than  the  life 
which  leans  to  the  second.  A  study  of  Herbert 
Spencer's  own  experiences  is  instructive. 

In  the  first  place,  for  many  of  us  there  is  little 
choice.  Spencer  had  neither  wife  nor  child.  He 
was  content  at  first  with  a  very  small  income.  His 
moderate  wants  were  supplied,  and  he  was  free  for 
his  chosen  task.  The  great  majority  of  us  have  no 
private  means  to  begin  with.  We  have  to  depend  on 
our  own  exertions  for  every  penny  we  possess. 
Other  lives  are  linked  with  ours,  and  have  claims 
upon  us  that  admit  of  no  denial.  The  question  of 
how  much  work  or  how  little  work  we  are  to  do  in 
life  is  solved  for  us.  We  have  our  duty  to  fulfil  in 
the  sphere  in  which  we  are  placed,  and  in  the  faith- 
ful fulfilment  of  that  we  find  scope  for  all  our 
energies. 

But  there  is  more  to  say.  Does  it  not  frequently 
happen  that  work  only  begins  to  tell  when  it  is  car- 
ried on  to  the  point  of  sacrifice?  This  may  be  be- 
cause of  the  struggle  for  existence.  I  can  conceive 
a  student  determining  to  work  a  few  hours  a  day, 
giving  the  rest  to  recreation.  But  if  he  fixes  on 
three  hours,  let  us  say,  he  will  find  that  some  one  of 
equal  or  superior  gifts  is  working  six  hours,  and  will 

218 


"  WORK-DRUNKENNESS  " 

certainly  come  in  before  him.  That,  however,  is  a 
superficial  explanation.  I  cannot,  after  much  re- 
flection, explain  the  fact,  but  the  fact  is  there.  It 
is  a  vital  truth  that  work  carried  beyond  the  boun- 
dary of  the  natural  strength  is  the  work  that  makes 
its  mark  in  the  world.  A  man  has  made  no  mark, 
and  asks  himself  why.  It  is  because  he  has  not  paid 
the  price  of  making  the  mark. 

It  looks  very  well  in  theory  to  say  you  have  a 
certain  income;  you  have  a  decent  business;  you 
ought  to  be  satisfied  with  the  returns  and  go  on 
quietly.  Why  should  you  harass  yourself  trying  to 
get  more?  This  looks  unanswerable,  but  it  is  very 
easily  answered.  The  condition  on  which  most  in- 
comes, and  I  should  think  nearly  all  businesses  are 
held,  is  that  there  should  be  a  constant  effort  after 
progress.  Can  business  men  say,  "  We  will  restrict 
ourselves  to  what  we  are  doing ;  we  will  make  no  pro- 
vision for  expansion;  we  will  not  try  after  new 
markets  "  ?  Business  men  who  say  this  are  sure  to  be 
ousted.  The  old  markets  will  be  taken  from  them 
because  they  have  refused  to  reach  out  to  the  new. 
Doubtless  in  their  endeavours  to  overtake  business 
they  will  make  losses,  but  if  they  limit  the  losses  to 
their  capacity  they  will  in  the  long  run  succeed  bet- 
ter than  if  they  coasted  cautiously  by  the  shore, 
and  never  ventured  out  into  the  open  sea. 

The  truth  is,  however,  that  most  men  who  over- 
work themselves  cannot  help  it.  They  are,  as  it 
were,  possessed  by  some  spirit,  be  it  good  or  be  it 

219 


THE  KEY  OF.  THE  BLUE  CLOSET 

evil.  They  hear  a  call  and  obey  it,  not  waiting 
nicely  to  calculate  the  results.  Should  men  be  am- 
bitious? Ambitious  means,  etymologically,  I  sup- 
pose, a  going  about  to  canvass  for  the  support  of 
others.  Well,  it  is  in  this  way,  and  in  this  way  only, 
that  leaders  are  made.  In  this  way  only  can  a  party 
be  constructed  and  held  together,  and  advanced.  In 
every  department  of  life  we  need  leaders  sorely. 
The  true  leader  has  probably  some  pleasure  in  lead- 
ing, but  he  does  not  seek  after  leadership  for  the 
sake  of  any  prize  it  gives.  He  works  in  obedience 
to  an  inner  irresistible  impulse.  Then  there  are 
those  who  give  themselves  to  great  causes.  These, 
or  the  noblest  of  them,  often  deliberately  elect  to 
leave  those  causes  in  the  knowledge  that  they  will 
have  no  visible  success  in  their  battle  here.  To 
identify  themselves  with  certain  contentions  means 
exclusion  from  much  that  makes  life  desirable.  It 
means  hard  fighting,  and  a  rain  of  blows.  It  cer- 
tainly cannot  mean  a  visible  coronation  on  the  earth, 
yet  it  means  happiness  of  the  truest  and  deepest 
kind.  It  was  not  chosen  for  that  happiness ;  the 
choice  was  the  result  of  an  impulse  which  could  not 
be  thwarted.  Toil  for  our  dear  ones  is  very  sweet. 
The  losing  of  oneself  sustains  many  a  heart  in  peace 
and  joy,  through  the  glare  and  turmoil  of  human 
existence.  But  the  plunge  into  the  midcurrent  of 
human  strife  is  not  usually  taken  after  a  process  of 
argument.  "  I  am  willing  to  spend  and  be  spent 
for  you." 


"  WORK-DRUNKENNESS  " 

Was  Spencer  himself  happier  than  men  who  never 
husbanded  their  energies?  He  produced  his  system, 
no  doubt,  but  he  seemed  to  lose  much  in  the  process. 
For  one  thing  he  had  to  kill  time.  If  he  worked 
three  hours  in  a  day  he  had  done  his  task,  and  as  he 
did  not  care  for  reading  and  could  only  maintain 
social  intercourse  on  his  own  terms,  he  had  difficulty 
in  getting  through  the  hours  without  weariness. 
There  are  many  of  us  who  have  had  to  deal  with  our 
own  difficulties,  but  have  been  mercifully  spared 
Spencer's  peculiar  trial.  A  really  hard  worker  does 
not  know  what  killing  time  means.  He  cannot  but 
remember  that  time  is  killing  him.  But  I  am  sure 
there  will  not  be  a  few  readers  of  these  lines  who 
look  back  upon  their  lives,  and  remember  in  them 
many  hours  which  they  did  not  know  how  to  employ. 
Their  trouble  has  rather  been  that  the  hours  of  the 
day  were  too  few.  They  have  had  always  more  in 
the  way  of  work  and  enjoyment  than  they  could 
ever  compass.  Sometimes  sheer  weakness  or  illness 
may  make  a  leisure  hour  greatly  looked  forward  to 
quite  useless,  but,  given  ordinary  conditions  of 
things,  ennui  is  a  word  for  whose  meaning  they  have 
to  look  out  in  the  dictionary.  They  know  nothing  of 
it  themselves.  What  they  do  know  is  that  the  suf- 
ferers from  the  malady  find  it  intolerable.  Surely 
it  is  infinitely  better  to  suffer  from  the  weariness  of 
overwork  than  to  find  time  hanging  heavy  on  one's 
hands. 

Spencer  suffered  intensely  from  the  concentration 


THE   KEY   OF   THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

of  his  interest  upon  himself.  This  gives  an  air  of 
meanness  and  littleness  to  a  character  which  was 
essentially  neither  mean  nor  little,  but  in  many 
points  great.  To  be  delivered  from  morbid  intro- 
spection is  one  of  the  chief  of  blessings.  The  over- 
worked man,  the  work-drunken  man,  if  you  choose  to 
call  him  so,  is  free  from  that.  He  has  no  time  to 
think  of  himself,  and  he  is  saved  thereby  from 
innumerable  ills. 

But  I  have  been  leading  up  all  the  while  to  a  chal- 
lenge— Is  it  true  that  over-worked  men  are  less 
happy,  less  healthy,  and  shorter  lived  than  others? 
I  do  not  believe  it.  Let  any  one  think  over  the  list 
of  his  friends.  There  are  three  or  four  of  my 
friends  who  might  fairly  be  described  as  work- 
drunken.  They  are  always  busy  and  always  ready 
to  take  on  more  work.  Two  of  them  are  not  physi- 
cally robust,  but,  save  at  times  of  immense  pressure, 
they  are  the  most  cheerful  and  gentle  men  I  know. 
They  never  brood,  they  are  generally  hopeful;  they 
have  little  relaxation,  but  what  they  have  is  relished 
with  an  intensity  of  joy.  They  are  the  people  who 
keep  young  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word.  They  have 
the  spirit  that  secures  the  happiness  because  it  does 
not  shrink  from  the  unhappiness  of  working  days. 
They  have  their  times  of  full  sunshine  given  to 
happy  memories,  happy  experiences,  and  happy 
hopes.  I  think  of  others  who  are  under-worked,  and 
I  will  not  say  that  I  have  not  sometimes  envied  them 
their  leisure,  but  I  have  never  envied  them  long,  nor 


"  WORK-DRUNKENNESS  " 

have  I  ever  felt  that  the  envy  was  rational.  It 
would  be  well  perhaps  if  we  knew  just  how 
much  we  ought  to  do.  But  in  a  life  like  this  our 
calculations  are  rough  and  precarious,  and  we  are 
upon  the  right  side,  as  we  escape  from  self  and  self- 
ishness. What  drains  and  exhausts  vitality  is  work 
carried  on  anxiously,  work  accompanied  with  worry, 
and  work  generally  brings  worry  because  it  is  not 
well  and  thoroughly  done.  Spencer  did  his  part  in 
life,  and  we  have  no  right  to  criticise  him,  but  if  he 
could  have  forgotten  himself  at  times  he  would  have 
left  a  fairer  and  nobler  record. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

"  MELTED    DOWN    FOR    THE    TALLOW    TRADE  " 

"  BE  courteous,  be  obliging,  Dan,"  said  Sir  Hugo  to 
Daniel  Deronda,  "  but  don't  give  yourself  over  to  be 
melted  down  for  the  tallow  trade." 

During  the  holiday  season  I  wakened  one  morning 
to  the  unwonted  consciousness  that  I  had  a  whole 
forenoon  to  dispose  of  at  my  own  will  and  pleasure. 
Immediately  three  manuscripts  presented  themselves 
to  my  mind.  They  were  all  from  strangers  who  had 
written  asking  me  to  read  the  manuscripts,  give  an 
opinion  on  them,  and  if  possible  get  them  published. 
It  was  perhaps  my  duty  to  read  those  manuscripts, 
and  yet  the  prospect  was  sufficiently  bleak.  There 
were  so  many  other  things  that  I  wished  to  do,  and 
the  doing  of  which  seemed  likely  to  be  a  great  deal 
more  useful.  So  I  came  to  a  problem  which  appeals 
not  only  to  the  great  and  eminent  few  but  to  all  of 
us  who  are  keeping  our  heads  above  water.  How 
far  should  the  claims  of  strangers  be  allowed  to  in- 
trude upon  the  work  of  life? 

Going  up  to  the  study,  I  read  a  sketch  of  a  distin- 
guished preacher  who  died  lately.  His  friend  said 
that  this  minister  was  in  early  years  an  earnest  stu- 
dent, and  continued  to  be  so  in  intention,  but  he 


"MELTED    FOR   THE    TALLOW    TRADE" 

was  so  mobbed  by  details  that  he  was  unable  to  sat- 
isfy the  claims  of  the  intellect.  He  was  so  busy  that 
he  could  not  find  time  to  read.  Then  I  took  up  a 
new  book  by  Lilian  Whiting  called  Life  Radiant, 
and  to  my  delight  I  found  that  she  had  discussed 
my  problem  for  me  with  much  insight,  good  feeling, 
and  sound  sense.  Her  chapter  may  be  called  "  A 
Study  in  the  Ethics  of  Interruption."  I  take  my 
own  way,  but  Miss  Whiting's  essays  on  this  and  kin- 
dred themes  may  be  cordially  recommended.  She  is 
more  hopeful  than  I  am  about  the  prospects  of  telep- 
athy and  such  things.  There  is  charm  in  her 
writing,  the  charm  which  belongs  to  a  kind  and 
hopeful  and  sanguine  nature. 

There  are  two  sides  to  the  question.  In  the  first 
place,  a  man  must  do  the  work  of  his  life,  and  he 
must  do  it  day  by  day.  He  cannot  do  it  as  it  should 
be  done  unless  he  concentrates  on  it  his  mental 
energy  for  the  time.  There  are  very  few  of  us  who 
can  maintain  this  concentration  through  constant 
interruptions.  Once  we  settle  down  to  the  bit  of 
work  that  presents  itself  we  can  make  some  progress 
if  we  are  left  alone,  but  callers  and  letters  and  mes- 
sages throw  us  off  the  track,  and  devastate  our  pur- 
pose. We  cannot  begin  where  we  left  off,  and  the 
golden  morning  slips  by  without  leaving  any  solid 
and  tangible  product.  If  we  are  to  do  our  work  we 
must  reserve  for  it  certain  hours,  and  keep  these 
hours  secure. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  is  the  great  and  binding 


THE   KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

claim  of  humanity.  The  unwelcome  visitor  seems  to 
say,  "  Do  you  desire  to  serve  humanity  ?  I  am 
humanity."  The  letter  from  a  stranger  seems  to 
demand  an  answer.  It  is  very  difficult  if  not  im- 
possible to  get  rid  of  the  feeling  that  every  human 
being  who  writes  to  you  civilly  ought  to  have  a  re- 
ply. It  is  an  instinct  of  the  heart  to  uphold  the 
falling  and  to  raise  the  fallen.  Nor  would  there  be 
any  difficulty  in  following  out  this  conviction  if  the 
trials  that  called  for  relief  were  great  trials.  A 
voice  from  the  depths  commands  a  hearing.  But 
mostly  you  are  annoyed  about  small  trifling  mat- 
ters. They  take  up  time  and  patience,  and  melt  you 
down  into  tallow  by  degrees,  but  they  are  in  them- 
selves insignificant.  Miss  Whiting  states  the  case 
very  well.  "  A  writer  who  may  be  pressed  for  time, 
finds  in  his  mail  matter  a  number  of  personal  re- 
quests from  strangers.  One  packet  contains  manu- 
scripts, perhaps,  which  a  woman  from  Montana 
entreats  especially  to  be  read,  and  returned  with  ad- 
vice or  suggestion.  Some  one  in  Texas  wants  a 
paragraph  copied  that  he  may  use  it  in  compiling 
a  calendar:  an  individual  in  Indiana  has  a  collection 
of  autographs  for  sale,  and  begs  to  know  of  the 
ways  and  means  for  disposing  of  them;  and  an 
author  in  Arizona  desires  that  a  possible  publisher 
be  secured  for  her  novel.  And  so  the  requests  run 
on." 

There  is  another  difficulty.     It  is  always  a  de- 
light to  encourage.     It  is  one  of    the    pleasantest 


things  in  the  world  to  congratulate  a  young  author 
on  a  triumphant  success.  The  noble  pleasure  of 
praising  strengthens  the  giver  and  the  receiver. 
But  in  the  vast  majority  of  cases  one  has  to  search 
anxiously  and  perhaps  awkwardly  enough  for 
phrases  that  decently  disguise  disappointment. 
What  you  wish  to  say  to  the  widow  who  has  been 
left  destitute,  and  has  been  induced  to  believe  that 
she  can  earn  a  living  for  her  children  by  her  pen, 
is  that  she  has  no  faculty.  How  are  you  to  say  it? 
Whatever  way  you  say  it,  it  will  give  disappoint- 
ment, and  the  pain  reacts  on  one's  self.  It  is  harder, 
but  still  not  difficult,  to  give  sympathy  to  those  who 
really  deserve  it,  who  have  been  doing  their  best, 
and  kept  down  by  circumstances.  But  here  again  it 
is  often  quite  evident  that  censure  rather  than  sym- 
pathy is  needed.  How  are  we  to  say,  "  I  am  very 
sorry,  but  it  is  all  your  own  fault "  ?  It  is  never 
pleasant  to  say  no,  and  yet  humanity  is  not  easily 
succoured,  and  it  is  only  now  and  then  that  efficient 
and  timely  help  can  be  given. 

The  problem  does  not  concern  those  who  deliber- 
ately choose  as  their  life-work  a  business  of  details. 
I  find  in  a  newspaper  an  extract  from  the  annual 
report  of  the  Rector  of  Spitalfields.  He  describes 
the  applicants  for  help  who  come  to  his  parish  room 
any  morning,  Englishmen  and  alien,  Christian  and 
Jew,  drunken  and  sober,  worthy  and  base,  thrifty 
and  profligate.  The  following  are  sample  re- 
quests : — 


THE   KEY  OF   THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

*  Bread  for  my  children.' 

'Please  send  "nuss";  mother's  awful  bad.' 

*  Boots  for  my  boy.     He's  got  none,  and  can't  go  to  school, 
and  the  School  Board's  sent  me  a  summons.' 

'  To  know  if  you'll  go  bail  for  my  son  that's  in  a  bit  of 
trouble.' 

'  I  thought  perhaps  you'd  help  me  to  a  bit  o'  black,  to  follow 
him  respectable  to  the  grave.' 

'D'ye  mind  renewing  my  hawker's  licence?  Yer  did  last 
year,  didn't  yer?' 

'  Shoeblack  ain't  much  use  without  brushes,  and  they  was 
only  new  last  week.  But  there  y'are,  s'help  me,  sir,  they  'as 
took  the  lot  afore  my  werry  eyes.' 

'And  so  on,'  adds  the  rector,  'day  after  day,  and  year  after 
year.' 

This  excellent  clergyman  is  doing  the  work  to  which 
he  has  dedicated  himself  in  meeting  these  applica- 
tions as  best  he  can.  Dr.  Lightfoot  wished  to  write 
a  history  of  the  fourth  century,  and  he  had  unique 
qualifications  for  the  task.  But  when  he  was  offered 
the  Bishopric  of  Durham  he  thought  it  his  duty  to 
accept  it.  He  knew  very  well  that  most  of  his  life 
in  Durham  would  have  to  be  spent  in  interviews, 
examinations,  sermons,  addresses,  and  the  like,  and 
that  it  would  be  impossible  for  him  to  continue  mak- 
ing contributions  to  scholarship  on  the  old  scale. 
We  may  think  he  chose  well  or  ill,  but  he  knew  best 
himself,  and  he  chose  with  his  eyes  open.  A  man 
may  concentrate  himself  on  writing  a  few  books,  or 
he  may  choose  to  be  a  journalist.  If  he  elects  jour- 
nalism as  a  profession  he  knows  very  well  that 
his  efforts  must  be  scattered  and  fragmentary,  and 
soon  forgotten.  He  might  possibly  be  remembered 

228 


"MELTED    FOR   THE    TALLOW    TRADE" 

longer  if  he  devoted  himself  to  work  that  had  a 
chance  of  endurance,  but  he  weighs  the  claims  and 
chances,  and  if  he  chooses  to  say  that  journalism 
gives  him  opportunities  and  influence  not  open  other- 
wise, he  is  entitled  to  have  his  way,  and  not  entitled 
to  repine  at  the  necessary  conditions.  Macaulay  felt 
very  strongly  the  conflict  between  the  claims  of  poli- 
tics and  the  claims  of  literature.  He  came  even  to 
grudge  the  time  spent  on  his  essays;  it  was  stolen 
from  his  history.  But  if  Macaulay  had  chosen  to 
be  a  politician  and  to  leave  literature  alone,  he  would 
no  doubt  have  still  done  a  great  work,  though 
as  a  politician  he  would  have  been  compelled  to  sub- 
mit to  interruptions  and  to  distractions  of  every 
kind. 

The  real  problem  is  not  the  conflict  between  one 
form  of  work  and  another,  but  the  conflict  between 
regular  work,  work  for  which  a  man  is  paid,  work 
to  which  he  has  given  himself,  and  irregular  unpaid 
service  given  in  compliance  with  the  claims  of  those 
who  are  in  a  manner  strangers.  I  once  travelled  for 
a  day  with  a  famous  American  Bishop.  He  had  evi- 
dently prepared  himself  for  some  literary  task,  but 
somehow  a  little  old  lady  had  fastened  herself  on  to 
him,  and  she  kept  talking  through  the  hours.  The 
Bishop  managed  to  be  civil  perhaps,  but  that  is  the 
most  that  could  be  said  of  him. 

I  think  it  may  be  said  as  a  general  rule  that  the 
work  of  your  life,  the  work  to  which  you  have  given 
yourself,  must  be  done  and  done  as  well  as  you  can 

229 


THE   KEY  OF   THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

do  it.  That  is  the  main  thing.  This  is  the  way  in 
which  one  may  best  serve  humanity.  If  a  clergyman 
is  expected  to  preach  regularly,  he  must  mind  his 
pulpit  first.  It  is  no  excuse  for  a  badly  prepared 
sermon  to  say  that  he  was  busy  through  the  week 
attending  this  meeting  and  that.  This  means  sim- 
ply that  he  was  too  busy  to  do  his  duty.  The 
journalist  must  not  neglect  his  work  in  order  to  de- 
liver harangues.  The  student  must  at  all  cost  keep 
his  hours.  He  must  not  allow  his  morning  to  be 
broken  up ;  he  must  not  suffer  the  distractions  of  life 
to  get  in  the  way.  The  days  are  passing,  and  the 
weeks  and  the  months  and  the  years.  Life  shrinks 
and  dwindles  into  a  narrow  compass.  It  is  high 
time  to  be  doing  something  on  a  regular  plan  in  a 
settled  way.  Otherwise  in  a  multitude  of  trifles  the 
golden  opportunity  slips.  In  other  words,  concen- 
tration is  necessary,  and  interruptions  must  be 
ended  at  any  cost.  If  not,  everything  we  do  will 
be  blurred  and  stained  by  error,  shortcoming,  and 
slovenliness. 

But  when  the  first  claims  of  duty  are  satisfied,  and 
these  are  the  first  claims,  we  have  to  ask  what  spare 
strength  and  leisure  we  can  give  away.  The  heart 
that  is  sensitive  to  human  need  longs  to  give,  and 
there  are  more  things  than  money  that  can  be  given — 
thought  and  counsel  and  kindness  and  patience. 
There  are  workers  who  are  never  exhausted  or 
wearied.  They  have  mujch  to  give,  and  they  give  it. 
I  have  often  recalled  Mr.  Gladstone's  illimitable 

230 


"MELTED    FOR   THE    TALLOW    TRADE" 

goodness  in  this  way.  He  was  always  ready  to 
answer,  and  his  innumerable  postcards,  which  were 
so  often  ridiculed,  were  a  genuine  and  striking  proof 
of  a  good,  kind  heart.  Sir  Walter  Scott  in  the  hey- 
day of  his  strength  accomplished  his  work  early  in 
the  day,  and  with  the  hours  that  remained  he  was 
prodigally  generous.  Others  again  find  their  own 
work  as  much  as  they  can  do.  They  are  worn  out 
when  it  is  finished.  From  such  people  less  should  be 
expected,  but  even  they  have  something  to  give,  and 
they  ought  to  give  it.  Charles  Dickens  was  one  of 
the  most  generous  of  men,  but  I  have  no  doubt  that 
he  shortened  his  life  by  his  incessant  readiness  to 
answer  every  call.  There  are  men  of  strong  vitality 
who  can  endure  the  strain  of  continual  callers,  men 
who  with  a  rush  of  geniality  hurry  one  visitor  out 
of  the  room  and  are  ready  for  the  next.  Others 
again  can  only  look  helplessly  at  the  stranger  and 
wait  with  what  courtesy  is  possible  till  he  is  pleased 
to  go.  There  are  many,  I  am  sure,  who  would  rather 
give  away  anything  than  their  leisure.  They  are 
quite  willing  to  part  with  what  money  they  can  spare, 
but  their  leisure — they  covet  it  so  much,  they  look 
forward  to  it  with  such  anticipations.  They  have 
but  a  few  hours  perhaps  in  the  week.  These  hours 
are  more  precious  than  gold.  They  are  greedily 
longed  for,  the  leisure  in  which  they  can  write  an- 
other chapter  of  that  book  which  advances  so  slowly 
— in  which  they  can  do  that  bit  of  honest,  serious 
hard  reading — in  which  they  can  pay  that  long-de- 


THE   KEY  OF  THE  BLUE   CLOSET 

ferred  visit  to  the  friend  who  is  two  hours  away  in 
London.  When  some  men  give  their  leisure  they 
give  it  with  a  great  if  silent  pang.  But  as  Miss 
Whiting  tells  us,  interruptions  may  be  opportuni- 
ties. May  be.. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

"  EHEU    EVELINA  " 

IT  is  impossible  to  think  of  the  Buried  Romance  of 
Life  without  remembering  the  love-story  of  the 
Antiquary.  Mr.  Oldbuck  opened  a  door  of  a  cabinet 
of  his  ancestor  Aldobrand,  and  produced  a  bundle 
of  papers  tied  with  a  black  riband  and  labelled 
"  Examinations,  etc.,  taken  by  Jonathan  Oldbuck, 
J.P.,  upon  the  18th  of  February,  17—"  ;  a  little 
under  was  written  in  a  small  hand  "  Eheu  Evelina." 
The  tears  dropped  from  the  earl's  eyes  as  he  endeav- 
oured in  vain  to  unfasten  the  knot  which  secured 
these  documents.  The  story  is  immortal,  and  should 
be  alive  in  the  memory  of  every  reader.  Eveline 
Neville  had  been  the  pupil  of  Oldbuck  more  than 
twenty  years  before,  and  "  her  gentleness,  her  do- 
cility, her  pleasure  in  the  studies  which  I  pointed 
out  to  her  attached  my  affection  more  than  became 
my  age  (though  that  was  not  then  much  advanced) 
or  the  solidity  of  my  character.  But  I  need  not 
remind  your  lordship  of  the  various  modes  in  which 
you  indulged  your  gaiety  at  the  expense  of  an  awk- 
ward and  retired  student  embarrassed  by  the  ex- 
pression of  feelings  so  new  to  him,  and  I  have  no 

233 


THE   KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

doubt  that  the  young  lady  joined  you  in  the  well- 
deserved  ridicule — it  is  the  way  of  womankind." 
One  is  glad  to  know  that  the  suspicion  was  ill- 
founded.  "  Let  me  say  you  do  injustice  to  the  mem- 
ory of  the  gentlest  and  kindest  as  well  as  to  the 
most  unhappy  of  women  to  suppose  she  could  make 
a  jest  of  the  honest  affection  of  a  man  like  you." 
Eveline  was  the  Antiquary's  first  and  only  love,  and 
when  he  lost  her  he  became  the  narrowed,  rugged, 
eccentric  and  somewhat  penurious  figure  we  know. 
But  he  remained  a  gentleman,  and  kept  within  him 
something  of  that  sap  of  life  which  she  had  stirred 
in  him  long  before. 

George  Eliot  has  given  us  a  parallel  in  Mr.  Gil- 
fiVs  Love  Story.  As  Mr.  Gilfil  is  introduced  to  us, 
he,  like  the  Antiquary,  was  close-fisted,  though  the 
propensity  showed  itself  rather  in  the  parsimony  of 
his  personal  habits  than  in  withholding  help  from  the 
needy.  He  indulged  in  moderate  potations  of  gin 
and  water,  his  chat  was  slipshod,  and  his  manners 
homely.  He  was  most  frequently  to  be  found  of  an 
evening  by  the  side  of  his  own  sitting-room  fire 
smoking  his  pipe  and  imbibing  his  favourite  mix- 
ture. He  did  not  shine  in  the  more  spiritual  func- 
tions of  his  office,  and  was  content  with  a  large  heap 
of  short  sermons,  rather  yellow  and  worn  at  the 
edges,  from  which  he  took  two  every  Sunday,  secur- 
ing perfect  impartiality  in  the  selection  by  taking 
them  as  they  came  without  reference  to  topics.  But 
there  was  a  room  in  his  home  which  his  housekeeper 

£8* 


"  EHEU     EVELINA  " 

had  dusted  and  let  the  air  upon  four  times  a  year 
for  more  than  thirty  years.  In  that  room  was  the 
likeness  of  a  girl,  probably  not  more  than  eighteen, 
with  small  features,  thin  cheeks,  a  pale  southern- 
looking  complexion,  and  large  dark  eyes.  "  Alas ! 
alas !  we  poor  mortals  are  often  little  better  than 
wood  ashes — there  is  small  sign  of  the  sap  and  the 
leafy  freshness  and  the  bursting  buds  that  were  once 
there.  But  whenever  we  see  wood  ashes  we  know  that 
all  that  early  fulness  of  life  must  have  been.  I  at 
least  hardly  ever  look  at  a  bent  old  man  or  a  wizened 
old  woman  but  I  see  also  with  my  mind's  eye  that 
past  of  which  they  are  the  shrunken  remnant,  and 
the  unfinished  romance  of  rosy  cheeks  and  bright 
eyes  seems  sometimes  of  feeble  interest  and  signifi- 
cance compared  with  the  drama  of  hope  and  love 
which  has  long  ago  reached  its  catastrophe,  and  left 
the  poor  soul  like  a  dim  and  dusty  stage  with  all  its 
sweet  curtain  scenes  and  fair  perspectives  over- 
turned and  thrust  out  of  sight."  "  Such  was  the 
locked-up  chamber  in  Mr.  Gilfil's  house:  a  sort  of 
visible  symbol  of  the  secret  chamber  in  his  heart 
where  he  had  long  turned  the  key  on  early  hopes 
and  early  sorrows,  shutting  up  for  ever  all  the  pas- 
sion and  the  poetry  of  his  life."  He  had  lived  with 
Tina  for  a  few  months  of  perfect  happiness.  She 
leaned  entirely  on  his  love,  and  found  life  sweet  for 
his  sake.  Then  she  died,  and  his  love  went  with  her 
into  deep  silence  for  evermore.  For  himself,  like 
the  Antiquary,  he  was  left  with  knots  and  rugged- 

235 


THE   KEY   OF   THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

ness,  whimsical,  odd,  sometimes  irritating;  but  the 
heart  of  him  was  sound  and  the  grain  was  of  the 
finest.  "  It  is  with  men  as  with  trees :  if  you  lop  off 
their  finest  branches  into  which  they  were  pouring 
their  young  life- juice  the  wounds  will  be  healed  over 
with  some  rough  boss,  some  old  excrescence,  and 
what  might  have  been  a  grand  tree,  expanding 
into  liberal  shade,  is  but  a  whimsical  mistaken 
trunk." 

Romance  is  buried  in  the  most  unlikely  places. 
There  is  a  fine  touch  in  Hypatla.  "  He  went  on  to 
my  utter  astonishment  by  such  a  eulogium  on  wedlock 
as  I  never  heard  from  Jew  or  heathen,  and  ended  by 
advice  to  young  married  folk  so  thoroughly  excel- 
lent and  to  the  point  that  I  could  not  help  telling 
him  when  he  stopped  what  a  pity  I  thought  it  that 
he  had  not  himself  married  and  made  some  good 
woman  happy  by  putting  his  own  recipes  into  prac- 
tice. .  .  .  And  at  that,  Hypatia,  I  saw  an  expres- 
sion on  his  face  which  made  me  wish  for  the  moment 
that  I  had  beaten  out  this  impudent  tongue  of  mine 
before  I  so  rashly  touched  some  deep  old  wound.  .  .  . 
The  man  has  wept  bitter  tears  ere  now,  be  sure  of 
it."  With  this  may  go  Mr.  Simcox's  beautiful  lines : 

"  Forget-me-nots  were  blooming 

Under  the  castle  walls; 
One  said,  '  They  are  forgotten 

Who  feasted  in  its  halls.' 
'And  who  would  be  remembered? 


"  EHEU     EVELINA  " 

What  is  the  use  of  fame?' 
A  scholar  cried ;  '  for  glory 

Is  near  akin  to  shame.' 
Yet  he  too  plucked  the  flowers, 

And  his  pale  face  flushed  hot, 
And  gave  one  to  a  lady, 

And  said,  '  Forget-me-not.' 

The  lady  in  her  cloister 

Burnt  her  young  heart  away, 
The  scholar  in  his  college 

Grew  deaf  and  dull  and  grey. 
But  when,  they  put  the  grave  clothes 

On  each  of  them  at  last, 
They  found  that  each  had  cherished 

A  relic  of  the  past. 
With  each  of  them  was  buried, 

To  ripen  or  to  rot, 
Deep  underground  for  ages, 

A  blue  forget-me-not." 

All  the  outward  sign  that  is  left  may  be  a  little 
packet  of  old  letters  kept  in  some  hidden  place.  Best 
not  to  open  them  perhaps.  To  do  so  is  to  encounter 
one's  own  past,  to  root  up  sorrows  and  griefs  and 
blunders,  to  revive  the  old  loves,  to  meet  the  ghosts 
of  the  dead  and  of  one's  old  self  to  make  head  as  one 
best  may  against  sudden  shocks  and  surprises.  Old 
letters  have  something  akin  to  sleeping  dogs  and  tor- 
pid snakes.  Well,  perhaps,  also  to  avoid  meetings 
if  meetings  are  still  possible.  There  is  a  curious 
passage  in  Mark  Rutherford's  Deliverance:  "  I  begin 
to  believe  that  a  first  love  never  dies.  A  boy  falls  in 
love  at  eighteen  or  nineteen.  The  attachment  comes 


to  nothing.  It  is  broken  off  for  a  multitude  of  rea- 
sons, and  he  sees  its  absurdity.  He  marries  afterwards 
some  other  woman  whom  he  even  adores,  and  he  has 
children  for  whom  he  spends  his  life;  yet  in  an  ob- 
scure corner  of  his  soul  he  preserves  everlasting  the 
cherished  picture  of  the  girl  who  first  was  dear  to 
him.  She  too  marries.  In  process  of  time  she  is 
fifty  years  old  and  he  is  fifty-two.  He  has  not  seen 
her  for  thirty  years  or  more,  but  he  continually 
turns  aside  into  the  little  oratory  to  gaze  upon  the 
face  as  it  last  appeared  to  him  when  he  left  her  at 
her  gate,  and  saw  her  no  more.  He  inquires  now  and 
then  dimly  about  her  when  he  gets  the  chance,  and 
once  in  his  life  he  goes  down  to  the  town  where  she 
lives  solely  in  order  to  get  a  sight  of  her  without  her 
knowing  anything  about  it.  He  does  not  succeed, 
and  he  comes  back  and  tells  his  wife,  from  whom  he 
never  conceals  any  secrets,  that  he  has  been  away 
on  business."  He  does  not  succeed — Mark  Ruther- 
ford has  saved  himself  by  that.  Some  have  suc- 
ceeded to  their  sorrow.  When  Rousseau  went  in 
1754  to  revisit  the  city  of  his  birth,  he  turned  aside 
in  the  road  to  visit  her  who  had  once  been  all  the 
world  to  him.  But  he  felt  the  shock  of  the  changed 
reality.  "  He  had  not  prepared  himself  by  recalling 
the  commonplace  which  we  only  remember  for  others, 
how  time  wears  hard  and  ugly  lines  into  the  face  that 
recollection  at  each  new  energy  makes  lovelier  with 
an  added  sweetness."  "  I  saw  her,"  he  says,  "  but 
in  what  a  state,  O  God,  in  what  debasement!  Was 

238 


"  EHEU     EVELINA  " 

this  the  same  Madame  de  Warens  in  those  days  so 
brilliant  to  whom  the  priest  of  Pontverre  had  sent 
me?  How  my  heart  was  torn  by  the  sight!" 

When  we  read  the  story  in  real  life  we  find  that  the 
moral  is  the  same.  There  is  no  evil,  and  there  may 
be  much  good  in  the  possession  of  an  old  romance 
provided  that  the  memory  of  the  dead  does  not  weaken 
fidelity  to  the  living.  Johnson  took  about  with  him 
through  all  his  changing  life  the  letters  of  Molly 
Aston,  and  kept  his  promise  that  they  should  be  the 
last  things  he  would  destroy.  But  the  letters  and  all 
the  memories  bound  up  with  them  never  weakened 
for  an  instant  his  abiding  love  for  Tetty.  I  am  not 
sure  that  it  was  so  with  Scott.  When  he  writes  in 
his  diary  "  What  a  romance  to  tell ! — and  told  I  fear 
it  will  one  day  be,  and  then  my  three  years  of  dream- 
ing and  my  two  years  of  wakening  will  be  chronicled 
doubtless.  But  the  dead  will  feel  no  pain."  Scott 
was  a  great  gentleman,  and  doubtless  he  cherished 
and  lamented  the  woman  he  married.  But  there  are 
worlds  of  significance  in  such  sentences  as  that  of  G. 
R.  Gleig :  "  Lady  Scott  could  never  be  a  companion 
to  him." 

We  have  the  portrait  of  the  lost  love  prefixed 
to  the  memoir  of  Principal  Forbes  of  St.  Andrews, 
and  one  cannot  look  at  the  somewhat  hard  fea- 
tures without  wondering  how  it  would  have  fared 
with  Scott  if  his  wishes  had  been  fulfilled.  It  is  diffi- 
cult to  regret  the  romance  of  his  life,  for  Scott  in 
arranging  for  the  marriage  of  his  son  showed  more 

239 


THE   KEY  OF   THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

shrewdness  and  more  care  for  the  good  things  of  life 
than  one  altogether  approves.  But  happily  his  own 
story  has  not  been  told  fully,  and  the  subject  is 
eminently  one  to  be  treated  charily.  As  for  Swift, 
I  am  quite  convinced  that  he  never  in  any  real  sense 
loved  Stella.  No  man  could  have  loved  her  who 
wrote  the  poems  which  Swift  addressed  to  her  as  the 
years  went  on.  Nor  do  I  believe  that  he  loved  Van- 
essa, though  on  this  point  there  is  more  room  for 
idoubt. 

One  may  say  again  that  the  peril  of  such  romance 
as  I  have  been  writing  about  is  that  the  dead  and  the 
living  may  be  unfairly  matched.  Lockhart's  lines 


"  When  youthful  faith  is  fled, 
Of  loving  take  thy  leave; 
Be  faithful  to  the  dead, 
The  dead  cannot  deceive," 


have  their  sting.  The  dead  cannot  err,  cannot  grow 
old.  Everything  that  came  short  in  them  passes  from 
the  memory,  and  nought  but  the  truth,  the  grace, 
the  tenderness  remain.  As  Mr.  Morley  admirably 
expresses  it,  "  recollection  at  each  new  energy  makes 
them  lovelier  with  an  added  sweetness."  The  living 
have  to  bear  the  touches  of  time  and  travail,  and  they 
are  near  us.  Shenstone's  beautiful  phrase  in  the 
epitaph  on  Miss  Dolmon  "  Heu !  quanto  minus  est 
cum  reliquis  versari  quam  tui  meminisse!"  is  trans- 
lated by  Byron: 

240 


"EHEU     EVELINA" 

"Yet  how  much  less  it  were  to  gain 

Though  thou  hast  left  me  free, 
The  loveliest  things  that  still  remain 
Than  thus  remember  thee." 

Sometimes,  in  many  natures  the  thought  of  the  past 
is  simply  unnerving.  Hawthorne  has  put  this  very 
well  and  truly  in  the  closing  page  of  the  Blithedale 
Romance.  The  narrator  has  lost  his  ideals,  and  lacks 
a  purpose.  "  There  is  one  secret — I  have  concealed 
it  all  along,  and  never  meant  to  let  the  least  whisper 
of  it  escape — one  foolish  little  secret  which  probably 
may  have  had  something  to  do  with  these  inactive 
years  of  meridian  manhood,  with  my  bachelorship, 
with  the  unsatisfied  retrospect  that  I  fling  back  on 
life,  and  my  listless  glance  towards  the  future.  Shall 
I  reveal  it?  It  is  an  absurd  thing  for  a  man  in  his 
afternoon — a  man  of  the  world  moreover — with  three 
white  hairs  in  his  brown  moustache,  and  that  deepen- 
ing track  of  a  crow's  foot  in  each  temple,  an  absurd 
thing  ever  to  have  happened,  and  quite  the  absurdest 
for  an  old  bachelor  like  me  to  talk  about.  But  it 
rises  in  my  throat;  so  let  it  come.  .  .  .  I — I  myself 
— was  in  love — with — Priscilla." 

For  the  great  majority,  however,  I  believe  that  the 
memory  of  a  Buried  Romance  is  softening  and  elevat- 
ing. Life,  as  it  goes  on,  tends  to  become  so  sordid, 
that  the  heart  grows  hard  if  it  ceases  to  converse  with 
the  past.  If  a  hopeless  passion  persists  through  a 
considerable  part  of  life  and  embitters  it,  we  have 
tragedy  of  the  worst  kind,  and  Mr.  Hamerton  truly 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  BLUE  CLOSET 

says  that  the  profounder  students  of  human  nature, 
like  Scott  himself,  take  the  dangers  of  passionate 
love  very  seriously.  Happily,  in  most  cases  the  bit- 
terness dies  and  the  sweetness  remains.  Every  gent- 
ler thought,  every  kinder  deed,  is  a  blossom  cast  on 
an  unforgotten  grave. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE    TRAGEDY    OF    FIRST    NUMBERS 

A  FRIEND  of  mine  has  made  a  practice  for  many  years 
of  buying  and  collecting  the  first  numbers  of  every 
new  periodical.  His  gathering  is  an  instructive  and 
ghastly  sight.  If  I  could  assemble  the  unfortunate 
persons,  proprietors  and  editors,  who  were  responsi- 
ble for  these  ventures,  and  set  forth  their  experi- 
ences, then  indeed  a  tale  would  be  unfolded.  First 
numbers  are  very  often  tragical.  After  all  the  fuss 
has  been  gone  through,  after  all  the  countless  diffi- 
culties have  been  for  the  time  surmounted,  you  have 
placed  in  your  hands  the  first  issue  of  your  new 
paper.  You  are  sick  when  you  see  it,  and  grow 
sicker  with  every  page  you  turn  over.  The  short- 
comings, the  blunders,  the  faults  of  every  kind  stand 
out  with  glaring  and  appalling  clearness.  If  you 
could  only  have  a  chance  of  doing  it  all  over  again ! 
But  that  chance  does  not  come  to  you.  Sometimes 
the  feelings  with  which  one  regards  the  efforts  of 
his  friends  are  hardly  less  painful.  There  was  a 
chance  and  so  much  depended  on  it,  and  now  all 
is  over. 

For  nowadays  a  thoroughly  bad  first  number  is 
practically  beyond  retrieval.     Twenty  years  ago  the 


THE   KEY   OF   THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

projectors  of  new  papers  began  low.  They  did  not 
spend  much  on  preliminary  advertising;  they  were 
satisfied  to  print  a  moderate  edition.  Generally 
speaking  their  sales  were  small  at  the  commencement. 
If  there  was  a  root  of  life  in  the  journal  it  gradually 
became  stronger.  Subscribers  increased,  and  in  a 
year  or  so  the  corner  might  be  turned  without  any 
very  extravagant  expenditure.  In  these  times  all 
that  was  wanted  of  a  first  number  was  that  it  should 
have  some  quality  of  freshness  and  strength.  Now- 
adays you  commence  a  new  paper  after  a  large  pre- 
liminary expenditure  sufficient  to  bring  it  thoroughly 
before  the  public  you  are  aiming  at.  Perhaps  £1000 
is  the  least  sum  that  can  be  spent,  and  I  have  known 
as  much  as  £40,000  spent  before  the  number  ap- 
peared. If  the  money  is  used  wisely,  there  is  no  fear 
about  the  sale  of  the  first  issue.  What  the  next  great 
development  in  journalism  may  be  I  do  not  know; 
I  wish  I  did.  But  I  am  tolerably  certain  that  the 
people  are  ready  for  a  decisive  alteration.  This  is 
proved  by  the  eagerness  which  they  show  in  purchas- 
ing first  numbers.  Again  and  again,  of  late,  from 
250,000  to  600,000  copies  of  new  papers  have  been 
disposed  of  almost  immediately.  These  numbers  are 
eagerly  scanned,  but  the  trouble  is  that  no  second 
chance  is  given.  If  the  numbers  are  disapproved  of 
the  purchaser  does  the  paper  all  the  harm  he  can  by 
condemning  it,  and  of  twenty  who  buy  the  first 
number  only  one  or  two  buy  the  second.  What  is 
to  be  done?  In  many  cases  the  wisest  thing  would 

244 


TRAGEDY    OF    FIRST    NUMBERS 

be  to  cut  the  loss  at  once.  Pride,  however,  points  an- 
other way,  and  the  paper  drags  on  and  on,  trying 
one  desperate  expedient  after  another,  till  a  few 
more  thousands  are  spent,  and  then  there  is  a  funeral 
with  no  mourners.  The  paper  that  was  boomed  and 
heralded  passes  away,  and  not  even  the  paragraphist 
in  difficulty  bestows  a  single  line  upon  it.  This  is 
tragedy.  Perhaps  there  are  fifty  such  tragedies 
every  year  in  England. 

Why  are  the  first  numbers  usually  so  bad?  It  is 
a  mystery.  The  ablest,  the  most  brilliant,  and  the 
most  experienced  of  journalists  will  turn  out  for  you 
a  first  number  so  execrable  in  every  respect  that  the 
humblest  amateur  journalist  in  a  country  town  might 
be  ashamed  of  it.  I  am  measuring  my  words.  Great 
firms  with  endless  resources  at  their  back  will  put  out 
first  numbers  which  are  only  seen  to  be  at  once  con- 
demned. There  is  a  fatality  about  the  first  number. 
Among  all  the  first  numbers  I  recollect,  and  they 
ace  very  many,  I  rememer  only  two  or  three  that 
could  be  called  excellent.  Some  causes  of  failure 
may  be  suggested,  but  I  do  not  profess  to  give  any- 
thing like  a  complete  or  satisfactory  account  of  the 
fact. 

The  idea  of  the  paper  may  be  wrong.  Papers 
are  started  with  a  view  to  supply  the  particular  needs 
of  a  particular  class.  It  may  turn  out,  it  often  does 
turn  out,  that  the  need  exists  only  in  the  imagination 
of  the  projector,  and  has  no  correspondence  with 
reality.  Thus  a  well-known  editor  explained  to  me 

245 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  BLUE   CLOSET 

that  he  devised  a  journal  which  would  interpret  Bel- 
gravia  to  Brixton.  It  turned  out  that  Brixton  did 
not  want  to  hear  about  Belgravia.  It  is  still  an  un- 
decided question  whether  women  demand  daily  news- 
papers of  their  own.  One  experienced  j  ournalist  of 
my  acquaintance  maintains  that  they  do  not,  that 
they  prefer  to  read  the  papers  their  husbands  read, 
and  that  in  a  properly  conducted  daily  journal  the 
needs  of  both  men  and  women  ought  to  be  met. 
Again,  it  may  turn  out  that  an  idea  suits  a  section 
of  the  public,  but  that  this  section  is  not  strong 
enough  to  float  a  journal  of  its  own. 

Another  case  of  failure  is  the  want  of  unity  in  the 
contents  of  a  paper.  A  good  many  years  ago  a  six- 
penny weekly  was  started  under  very  promising  au- 
spices. The  editor  secured  articles  from  many  bril- 
liant contributors.  If  he  had  printed  all  the  names 
of  his  writers  it  would  have  been  admitted  that  few 
journals  had  ever  commanded  so  powerful  a  team. 
But  when  the  twenty  articles  appeared,  it  was  felt 
that  they  did  not  make  a  paper,  and  there  was  gen- 
eral disappointment.  The  editor  replied  to  com- 
plaints by  giving  the  names  of  some  of  his  contribu- 
tors. The  reply  was  not  convincing.  A  weekly 
journal  of  opinion  relying  on  anonymous  contribu- 
tions must  maintain  the  same  tone  and  style  through- 
out. It  is  perhaps  the  highest  achievement  of  an 
editor,  the  most  convincing  proof  that  he  under- 
stands his  business,  when  he  is  able  to  induce  his  con- 
tributors to  write  after  a  certain  style.  It  was  said 

246 


TRAGEDY   OF    FIRST    NUMBERS 

by  an  eminent  man,  who  wrote  in  the  old  days  for 
both  the  Saturday  Review  and  the  Spectator,  that  he, 
unconsciously  to  himself,  changed  his  style  according 
as  he  was  writing  for  the  one  or  for  the  other.  The  old 
editors  made  great  efforts  after  this  unity,  and  led 
lives  of  strife  with  their  staff.  In  order  to  secure  the 
oneness  they  insisted  on  the  right  to  change  the  ar- 
ticles of  very  eminent  writers.  The  correspondence 
of  Macvey  Napier  and  Whitwell  Elwin  will  show  how 
resolutely  this  privilege  was  asserted,  and  how  vio- 
lently its  exercise  was  resented.  Nowadays,  I  think, 
there  is  very  little  of  that.  Whether  articles  are  pub- 
lished anonymously  or  with  signatures,  they  are  pub- 
lished very  much  as  they  were  sent  in. 

A  journal  may  be  approved  page  by  page,  and  yet 
it  may  turn  out  when  the  pages  are  put  together  that 
something  has  gone  badly  wrong.  This  is  a  con- 
stant cause  of  failure,  and  it  is  more  difficult  perhaps 
to  obviate  than  any  other.  A  good  paper  is  like  a 
well  arranged  dinner.  There  should  be  substantial 
food  and  delicacies  to  tempt  the  appetite.  It  is  not 
easy  to  attain  the  secret  of  combination.  We  may 
be  quite  sure  that  no  paper  will  live  long  on  a  single 
feature,  that  its  strength  is  in  several  features,  each 
appealing  more  or  less  powerfully  to  readers.  It  is 
a  matter  of  the  greatest  difficulty  to  find  how  each 
page  and  half-page  may  be  turned  to  the  best  ac- 
count. Many  do  not  find  out  until  after  a  series  of 
costly  experiments,  and  many  never  find  out  at  all. 
But  no  journal  is  in  a  quite  secure  position  if  the 

247 


filling  up  of  any  part  of  it,  however  small,  is  left  to 
the  chances  of  the  moment. 

I  shall  mention  one  other  cause  of  failure,  and  only 
one.  The  fault  may  be  not  the  editor's,  but  the 
publisher's.  Though  the  editor  has  usually  a  share 
in  fixing  the  style  of  production,  the  publisher  is  apt 
to  assert  his  rights  there.  I  have  seen  first  numbers 
which  were  not  amiss,  so  far  as  the  literary  contents 
were  concerned,  but  they  were  spoiled  by  bad  paper 
and  unsatisfactory  printing.  Illustrations  nowa- 
days are  worse  than  useless  to  a  journal  unless  they 
are  well  produced.  They  cannot  be  well  produced 
save  under  certain  conditions.  The  paper  must  be  of 
a  quality  fit  to  do  them  justice,  and  a  rotary  machine 
will  only  print  illustrations  satisfactorily  if  the  paper 
is  of  a  good  class.  There  is  nothing  that  gives  a 
journal  so  cheap  and  hopeless  a  look  as  execrably 
printed  blocks.  While  really  popular  journals  can- 
not afford  good  paper,  they  should  do  their  best.  I 
had  rather  have  sixteen  pages  on  fairly  good  paper 
than  twenty  on  a  paper  which  makes  the  reading 
matter  ugly  or  illegible.  The  smallest  difference  in 
the  price  per  pound  of  paper  makes  all  the  difference 
in  the  world  to  journals  with  a  large  circulation,  and 
publishers  are  constantly  tempted  to  lower  the  quality 
of  the  paper  they  buy.  They  may  thus  frustrate  all 
the  efforts  of  their  literary  staff.  If  the  protec- 
tionists have  their  way,  and  manage  to  raise  the 
price  of  paper,  it  will  be  interesting  to  see  the  results 
on  the  cheap  press  in  this  country. 

248 


TRAGEDY   OF    FIRST    NUMBERS 

Can  anything  be  done  to  avert  the  misfortune  of 
a  first  number?  The  only  plan  is  to  print  speci- 
men numbers  before  publication,  and  have  them 
thoroughly  and  mercilessly  criticised.  A  hundred 
pounds  spent  in  this  way  may  save  thousands  of 
pounds  in  the  future.  The  cruellest  critics  do  not 
care  to  point  out  his  blunders  to  the  unhappy  man 
whose  paper  is  already  on  the  bookstalls,  but  when  it 
is  in  the  experimental  stage  it  is  a  real  kindness  to 
point  out  the  faults,  and  the  wise  projector  will  wel- 
come the  most  severe  attacks.  It  is  only  when  you 
see  your  idea  materialised  that  you  are  able  properly 
to  judge  of  it.  You  may  see  that  while  the  project 
is  not  impracticable,  it  requires  for  its  working  out 
far  more  money,  far  more  time,  and  far  more  ability 
than  you  had  contemplated.  Or  you  may  see  that 
the  want  you  sought  to  supply  is  already  met  else- 
where. If  you  are  wise,  you  will  not  be  satisfied 
with  your  own  opinion,  nor  even  with  what  is  called 
expert  opinion.  Try  the  paper  on  an  average  reader, 
and  see  what  he  or  she  says.  This  is  not  an  infal- 
lible remedy  against  mistakes.  A  paper  may  be  well 
turned  out  in  every  part,  and  an  appeal  to  the  public 
may  show  that  it  is  not  wanted.  Also,  while  a  paper 
working  out  an  absolutely  new  and  popular  idea  in 
journalism  will  succeed  though  badly  done  at  first,  a 
rival  to  it  will  have  much  more  to  confront,  and  will 
not  succeed  unless  it  is  very  clearly  better  than  the 
journal  it  is  more  or  less  imitating.  I  cannot  call  to 
mind  a  single  case  where  the  original  journal,  well 

249 


maintained,  was  killed  by  rivals,  but  I  have  known 
many  cases  where  rivals  managed  to  obtain  a  greater 
circulation,  and  to  check  the  development  of  the  par- 
ent journal,  even  if  they  did  not  reduce  its  strength. 
I  ought  to  say  that  a  bad  first  number  does  not 
necessarily  spell  failure.  There  may  be  capital 
enough  and  brains  enough  to  go  on  till  the  memory 
of  the  failure  is  wiped  out,  and  the  journal  is  suc- 
cessful. But  even  in  that  event  it  is  probable  that 
thousands  and  thousands  of  pounds  have  to  be  spent 
which  if  the  start  had  been  good  might  have  been 
saved. 


250 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

MR.    E.    H.    HUTTON    OF    THE    "  SPECTATOB.  " 
(Published  September  16,  1897) 

ON  September  9,  1897,  Mr.  Hutton  succumbed  to  his 
long  and  painful  illness.  He  died  of  an  internal 
cancer,  the  presence  of  which  was  not  certainly  known 
till  a  comparatively  short  time  ago.  But  in  a  letter 
written  so  lately  as  July  he  said  that  though  doing 
his  work  he  felt  far  from  well,  and  did  not  anticipate 
many  more  years.  From  the  nature  of  the  malady 
he  suffered  much,  but,  happily,  during  the  very  last 
period  he  was  comparatively  free  from  pain,  although 
not  from  great  weakness.  He  bore  all  with  charac- 
teristic and  Christian  resignation  and  quietness.  It 
may  well  be  supposed  that  the  end  was  not  unwel- 
come. For  many  years  his  wife,  a  very  bright  and 
gifted  woman,  suffered  from  severe  melancholia. 
Mr.  Hutton  would  not  have  her  removed,  and  tenderly 
watched  over  her  till  she  died.  But  his  home  was  dark- 
ened. Mrs.  Hutton  never  spoke,  and  only  recognised 
her  husband  by  showing  signs  of  uneasiness  when  he 
came  later  from  work  than  was  his  custom.  When  at 
last  she  passed  away  his  illness  rapidly  increased. 
He  was  too  weak  to  read  letters  or  to  say  much,  but 
showed  an  anxiety  that  no  official  biography  of  his 


THE   KEY   OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

career  should  be  published,  an  anxiety  which  the 
Spectator  has  respected  so  far  as  to  insert  only  a 
brief  paragraph  announcing  his  death.  In  every 
relation  of  life  Mr.  Hutton  was  noble  and  generous, 
and  it  is  fit  that  others  should  say  something  of 
his  stainless  and  influential  career. 

Richard  Holt  Hutton  was  born  seventy-one  years 
ago  at  Leeds,  where  his  father,  Dr.  Joseph  Hutton, 
was  minister  of  the  Mill  Hill  Unitarian  Chapel.  At 
this  time  the  chapel,  which  has  now  been  superseded 
by  a  new  building,  was  attended  by  many  of  the 
leading  families  of  the  town.  Dr.  Hutton  was  an 
Irishman,  and  a  graduate  of  Trinity  College,  Dub- 
lin. His  father  was  a  Unitarian  minister  in  Dublin. 
He  was  in  his  day  a  considerable  preacher,  and 
greatly  respected  through  his  communion.  His 
weakness  in  the  pulpit  is  said  to  have  been  an  irresist- 
ible tendency  to  weep  on  very  little  occasion.  Mrs. 
Hutton  was  a  decidedly  able  woman  of  intellectual 
tastes.  Dr.  Hutton  was  a  thorough  Unitarian,  and 
followed  the  drift  of  his  denomination  in  departing 
from  the  old  and  comparatively  orthodox  views.  It 
is  told  of  him  that  at  a  meeting  of  ministers,  held  to 
discuss  prophecy  some  sixty  or  seventy  years  ago,  he 
expressed  the  opinion  that  no  prophecy,  not  even  the 
fifty-third  of  Isaiah,  had  any  reference  to  Jesus 
Christ.  Dr.  Hutton  received  a  call  to  the  now  ex- 
tinct chapel  at  Carter  Lane,  St.  Paul's  Churchyard, 
London.  At  that  time  some  of  the  chief  London 
Unitarian  families  attended — the  Clarkes,  the  Law- 

5252 


MR.  R.  H.  HUTTON  OF  THE  "  SPECTATOR  " 

rences,  the  Nettlefolds,  the  Chamberlains,  and  others. 
Mr.  Joseph  Chamberlain's  father  was  a  leading  mem- 
ber and  a  very  pronounced  Unitarian,  while  the  pres- 
ent Secretary  of  State  for  the  Colonies  not  only  wor- 
shipped in  the  chapel  but  took  an  active  part  in  its 
work.  The  building  was  inconveniently  situated  for 
the  majority  of  the  attendants,  and  Dr.  Hutton  ul- 
timately resigned  his  charge,  where  he  was  succeeded 
by  the  Rev.  Henry  Solly,  honourably  known  in  litera- 
ture and  in  philanthropic  work.  Richard  Hutton 
was  educated  at  the  University  College  School  and 
the  University  College,  institutions  much  favoured 
by  Unitarians  until  the  scandalous  episode  of  the  re- 
jection of  Dr.  Martineau  for  the  Philosophical  Chair 
took  place.  Dr.  Martineau,  I  believe,  lost  the  place 
by  the  absence  of  Henry  Crabb  Robinson,  who  was 
in  Brighton,  and  who  did  not  know  the  date  of  the 
election.  Among  Hutton's  friends  at  the  time  were 
his  future  brother-in-law,  William  Caldwell  Roscoe, 
who  died  early,  but  lived  long  enough  to  leave  be- 
hind, perhaps,  the  very  best  critical  essays  that  have 
been  written  since  Hazlitt;  Walter  Bagehot,  and 
others  scarcely  less  gifted.  One  of  Mr.  Hutton's 
most  characteristic  writings  was  the  memoir  he  pre- 
fixed to  his  brother-in-law's  works  issued  posthum- 
ously, and  he  also  wrote  a  too  brief  memoir  of  Bage- 
hot. The  young  student  was  much  influenced  by 
some  of  his  teachers,  especially  by  that  singularly 
able,  though  it  is  to  be  feared  forgotten  scholar, 
Professor  Maiden,  on  whom  he  wrote  a  striking  arti- 

253 


THE   KEY  OF  THE  BLUE   CLOSET, 

cle,  and  the  brilliant  and  versatile  Augustus  de  Mor- 
gan. He  greatly  distinguished  himself  as  a  student, 
took  honours  and  the  gold  medal  in  philosophy  with 
his  degree  of  M.A.  But  perhaps  the  intellectual  in- 
tercourse which  he  enjoyed  with  his  compeers  was 
even  more  stimulating.  The  Huttons  lived  at  Ham- 
ilton Place,  King's  Cross,  and  Hutton  himself  has 
told  us  of  the  walks  which  he  took  with  Bagehot,  dis- 
cussing all  subjects,  through  the  dreary  chain  of 
squares  which  led  from  University  College  to  his 
home. 

It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  the  young  man, 
whose  associations  had  all  been  with  Unitarianism 
(Bagehot,  and  Roscoe,  too,  were  of  leading  Unitarian 
families) ,  should  resolve  to  follow  his  father's  career. 
He  was  educated  for  the  Unitarian  ministry  at  Man- 
chester New  College  under  two  very  able  men,  the 
Rev.  J.  J.  Tayler  and  James  Martineau.  Martineau, 
who  was  twenty  years  older,  became  one  of  the  great 
influences  in  his  life,  though  he  ultimately  was  far 
separated  from  his  teacher's  creed.  In  particular, 
Martineau's  elaborate  style  of  long  sentences  shaped 
Hutton's,  and  perhaps  not  for  the  best.  Hutton 
never  attained,  and  never  tried  to  attain,  that  uni- 
form, incessant,  fatiguing  brilliancy  which  in  Mar- 
tineau "  makes  you  dig  for  dulness  as  for  hid  treas- 
ure." Though  he  had  a  marvellous  command  of 
English,  and  was  perpetually  hitting  even  to  the  last 
on  happy  and  novel  phrases,  it  cannot  be  denied  that 
his  writing  often  trails  and  lags,  that  he  does  not 


MR.  R.  H.  HUTTON  OF  THE  "  SPECTATOR  " 

convey  his  thoughts  lucidly,  and  that  the  best  of  him 
is  usually  to  be  got  at  a  second  perusal.  He  studied 
for  short  periods  afterwards  at  two  German  univer- 
sities, and  learned  to  read  German  well,  and  to  ac- 
quire a  good  knowledge  of  German  criticism,  espe- 
cially the  criticism  of  Baur,  although  he  never  went 
really  deep  into  German  thought. 

And  now  came  the  period  which  I  believe  to  have 
been  the  most  determining  in  his  life.  He  was  a  can- 
didate for  a  Unitarian  pulpit,  and  he  failed  in  his 
quest.  To  use  the  Scottish  phrase,  he  was  a  pro- 
bationer who  did  not  get  a  church,  and  who  became 
"  a  stickit  minister."  He  may  have  been  offered  a 
sphere  of  labour,  although  I  doubt  it,  but  never  was 
offered  any  adequate  sphere,  and  though  he  supplied 
pulpits  here  and  there,  nothing  came  of  it.  Some 
papers  have  said  that  he  was  settled  at  Gloucester  as 
Unitarian  minister.  This  is  not  so.  His  brother  for 
a  time  ocupied  the  pulpit  there.  Old  Unitarians  have 
reminiscences  of  his  sermons,  in  particular  of  one  on 
the  significance  of  the  word  "  Christopher,"  which 
he  preached  up  and  down  the  country.  Perhaps  the 
reason  of  his  failure  was  that  he  was  shortsighted, 
and  read  his  sermons  with  some  difficulty.  His  dis- 
courses are  also  said,  and  probably  with  truth,  to  have 
been  difficult  and  heavy.  In  any  case  he  failed,  and 
relinquished  the  profession,  and  as  we  shall  see  later 
on,  this  failure  coloured  his  whole  thought  of  the 
churches  and  of  religion.  It  may  be  mentioned  that 
for  a  brief  period  he  edited  the  Unitarian  paper  called 

255 


THE  KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

the  Inquirer,  but  I  fancy  this  was  play  more  than 
anything  else.  At  least  he  was  in  the  habit  of  talking 
as  if  it  were. 

The  next  episode  in  his  career  was  his  marriage 
to  Miss  Roscoe,  sister  of  W.  C.  Roscoe,  and  one  of 
the  famous  Liverpool  family.  She  is  remembered  as 
a  singularly  sweet  and  gracious  woman.  He  obtained 
the  Principalship  of  University  Hall,  in  succession, 
if  I  am  not  mistaken,  to  Clough,  with  whom  he  was 
on  very  friendly  terms;  and  all  seemed  to  go  well 
with  him.  He  continued  to  be  a  Unitarian,  though 
he  had  relinquished  preaching,  and  with  his  young 
wife  attended  the  preaching  of  Mr.  Solly  in  Carter 
Lane  Chapel. 

Then  came  perhaps  the  most  trying  time  of  his 
life.  He  fell  into  bad  health.  Consumption  was 
threatened,  and  he  was  ordered  by  the  doctors  to  go 
out  to  the  West  Indies.  He  resigned  the  Principal- 
ship  of  University  Hall,  and  went  out  with  Mrs. 
Hutton.  The  change  was  very  beneficial  to  him,  but 
Mrs.  Hutton  caught  yellow  fever  and  died.  The 
blow  was  crushing.  His  brother-in-law  came  out  and 
brought  him  home.  When  he  had  recovered  a  little 
from  his  deep  dejection,  he  found  himself  almost  with- 
out resource,  but  was  able  to  contribute  a  little  to 
Unitarian  periodicals  like  the  Prospective  Review, 
took  chambers  at  Lincoln's  Inn,  and  began  to  read  for 
the  Bar.  Then  followed  the  great  change  which 
permanently  altered  the  complexion  of  his  life.  One 
day  Mr.  Maurice  happened  to  remark  to  Mr.  Solly, 

256 


MR.  R.  H.  HUTTON  OF  THE  "  SPECTATOR  " 

who  was  visiting  him,  that  the  best  article  on  his 
theological  essays  had  appeared  in  the  Prospective 
Review,  and  that  he  greatly  wished  to  know  the 
author.  Mr.  Solly  immediately  told  him  that  the 
essay  was  by  Mr.  Hutton,  and  offered  to  intro- 
duce them.  He  went  over  to  Hutton's  chambers, 
found  him  out,  but  gave  the  message  to  his  brother, 
and  Hutton  immediately  called  on  Maurice.  This 
was  the  beginning  of  an  unusually  strong  and  last- 
ing friendship.  Under  its  influence  Mr.  Hutton  soon 
became  a  member  of  the  Church  of  England,  a  de- 
voted member,  and  perhaps  more  and  more  devoted 
as  life  went  on.  He  was  married  again  to  a  cousin 
of  his  former  wife — also  a  Miss  Roscoe — and  found 
congenial  employment  in  the  editorship  of  a  new 
quarterly,  the  National  Review.  When  it  was  started 
the  days  of  the  quarterlies  were  passing  away,  and 
the  periodical  never  paid  its  expenses.  But  in  my 
judgment,  and  I  have  read  almost  every  word  of  it, 
no  such  excellent  review  has  ever  been  published  in 
England.  The  very  best  writings  of  Hutton,  Ros- 
coe, Greg,  Martineau,  and  many  others,  appeared  in 
it.  Whatever  the  nomenclature  may  have  been — 
and  every  journalist  knows  that  does  not  amount  to 
much — Hutton  was  the  real  editor,  and  the  life  of  the 
periodical.  He  showed  there  that  he  possessed  the 
editorial  faculty.  He  was  not  only  able  to  write 
himself,  but  he  knew  what  subjects  were  vital,  and  he 
knew  how  to  choose  and  rule  his  men.  Although  I 
have  no  positive  evidence  of  the  fact,  I  strongly  sus- 

257 


THE   KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

pect  that  he  had  his  difficulties  with  Lady  Byron, 
who  found  the  money,  or  at  least  much  of  the  money, 
necessary  for  the  carrying  on  of  the  periodical. 
About  Lady  Byron  Mr.  Hutton  was  noticeably  ret- 
icent, but  once  or  twice  he  permitted  himself  to  say 
something  of  her  character.  He  seems  to  have  found 
her  much  as  she  is  described  in  Medora  Leigh,  a  good 
woman,  with  generous  impulses,  but  capricious  and 
unreliable.  Through  her  Mr.  Hutton  became  ac- 
quainted with  various  notable  persons — Mr.  A.  J. 
Scott,  of  whom  he  spoke  as  a  truly  prophetic  man, 
but  indolent  and  unbusiness-like ;  A.  J.  Ross,  the 
clever  Presbyterian  minister  at  Brighton,  who  was 
deposed  for  heresy;  George  Macdonald,  and  others. 
I  am  not  sure  whether  he  personally  knew  Frederick 
Robertson,  who  was  on  intimate  terms  with  Lady 
Byron,  but  he  has  spoken  of  Robertson  as  the  best  of 
theologians,  better  even  than  Maurice,  although  his 
influence  on  Hutton  was  nothing  like  so  deep  as  that 
of  Maurice  and  Newman.  One  of  the  features  of 
the  National  Review,  which  was  very  prophetic  of 
the  Spectator,  was  the  short  comments  on  new  books 
at  the  end.  It  is  from  the  National  Review  that  his 
two  volumes  of  theological  and  literary  essays  are 
reprinted.  They  were  first  published  on  the  sugges- 
tion of  Mr.  Strahan,  and  are  now  included  in  Messrs. 
Macmillan's  Eversley  Series.  I  have  always  thought 
Hutton  spoiled  all  his  republications  by  turning 
"  we "  into  "  I,"  and  by  cutting  out  remorselessly 
the  more  brilliant  and  audacious  bits.  The  essays 

258 


MR.  R.  H.  HUTTON  OF  THE  "  SPECTATOR  " 

were  not  written  for  book  publication,  but  for  anony- 
mous publication,  and  they  ought  certainly  to  have 
been  left  in  the  original  form.  As  every  one  knows, 
they  are  very  stately  productions,  and  some  of  them 
made  a  deep  mark.  Professor  Drummond  said  that 
the  essay  on  Goethe  was  the  best  critical  piece  that 
had  been  written  in  this  century,  a  judgment  with 
which  I  cannot  agree,  though  certainly  the  paper  has 
great  merits  both  of  style  and  thought.  Another 
piece,  which  almost  gave  a  nickname,  was  that  on 
"  The  Hard  Church,"  an  attack  on  Henry  Rogers, 
which  was  by  no  means  without  justification.  But 
some  of  the  best  essays  have  never  been  reprinted. 
In  particular  there  was  one  on  Lord  Lytton  the 
younger,  which  was  a  gem  in  its  way.  For  the 
Lyttons,  father  and  son,  Mr.  Hutton  had  a  pro- 
found contempt.  He  detested  them  for  their  display 
of  Parisian  diamonds,  and  he  never  did  justice  to 
the  very  great  and  various  powers  of  the  senior. 
The  income  from  the  National  Review  was  not  very 
large,  and  Mr.  Hutton  supplemented  it  by  teaching 
mathematics  to  young  ladies  in  Bedford  College. 
He  was  much  liked  by  his  pupils,  and  made  a  success- 
ful teacher,  though  his  frequent  attacks  of  giddiness 
made  the  work  somewhat  irksome. 

All  this  time  he  had  been  in  training  for  his  true 
place,  which  came  to  him  strangely.  He  was  thirty- 
five  or  thirty-six,  in  the  very  prime  of  his  vigour,  and 
looking  out  anxiously  for  a  suitable  sphere.  Mr. 
Meredith  Townsend,  who  had  been  successful  as  a 

259 


THE   KEY   OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

journalist  in  India,  but  had  suffered  there  from 
severe  bereavement,  resolved  to  come  to  this  country 
and  buy  a  paper.  He  relinquished  the  Friend  of 
India  and  purchased  the  Spectator.  He  went  on  with 
the  journal  for  six  months  single-handed,  and  then 
found  it  was  too  much  for  him.  He  consulted  that 
well-known  Indian  politician,  Mr.  Wilson,  the  father- 
in-law  of  Bagehot,  and  Wilson  told  him  he  knew  the 
very  man.  His  recommendation  of  Hutton  was  ac- 
cepted by  Townsend.  Thus  began  a  very  close,  re- 
markable, and  influential  alliance,  which  was  even 
strengthened  as  time  went  on,  and  which  only  death 
has  broken.  So  close  was  it  that  I  believe  that  some- 
times one  would  begin  an  article  and  the  other  would 
finish  it.  Each  learned  from  each,  save  that  Mr. 
Townsend's  writings  never  took  a  profound  religious 
tone.  The  only  difference  that  ever  occurred  be- 
tween them  was  when  Mr.  Hutton  became  more  and 
more  of  a  High  Churchman.  When  Hutton  came 
on  the  Spectator  his  place  had  to  be  created.  Reli- 
gion had  never  been  prominent  in  the  journal,  but 
Hutton  at  once  began  to  preach,  and  he  preached  to 
a  great  and  listening  and  picked  audience  until  he 
died.  His  friend  Maurice  agreed  with  Mr.  Spur- 
geon  in  thinking  that  no  ministerial  position  is  equal 
in  importance  to  that  of  a  man  who  can  collect  and 
hold  a  constituency  which  will  read  his  religious  in- 
struction. He  very  greatly  rejoiced  in  the  oppor- 
tunity that  had  at  last  presented  itself  to  his  friend 
and  disciple. 

260 


MR.  R.  H.  HUTTON  OF  THE  "  SPECTATOR  " 

Something  ought  to  be  said  of  the  position  in  which 
Townsend  and  Hutton  found  the  Spectator.  That 
journal  was  started  by  a  very  able  Scotsman,  Robert 
Stephen  Rintoul.  Rintoul  was  editor  of  the  Dundee 
Advertiser  about  1813,  and  he  was  certainly  a  born 
editor.  At  the  very  beginning  of  his  career  he  ele- 
vated the  compilation  of  a  newspaper  into  an  art. 
The  selection,  condensation,  and  classification  of  news 
and  discussions  in  each  successive  issue  was  carefully 
studied  with  a  view  to  make  the  paper  complete  and 
attractive  as  a  whole.  To  attain  this  end  he  on  one  oc- 
casion actually  rewrote  the  whole  contents  of  a  num- 
ber of  his  journal.  He  had  Thomas  Chalmers  as  one  of 
his  contributors,  and  acquired  a  position  of  great  in- 
fluence. In  1828  he  came  to  London,  and  after  he 
had  made  some  unsuccessful  attempts  to  establish  a 
paper  his  friends  raised  the  funds  for  the  Spectator, 
the  most  prominent  of  them  being  William  Dixon  of 
Govan.  The  first  number  appeared  in  1828,  and 
from  that  date  to  the  day  of  his  death  his  history  was 
the  history  of  his  journal.  Rintoul  fought  for  par- 
liamentary reform,  for  the  extension  of  the  franchise, 
the  shortening  of  the  duration  of  Parliaments,  and 
the  ballot.  He  was  a  coadjutor  of  Rowland  Hill  in 
his  Post  Office  ideas,  and  was  a  great  advocate  of 
systematic  colonisation.  He  fought  also  most  effi- 
ciently for  the  Anti-Corn-Law  League,  and  though 
in  the  end  of  the  day  he  did  not  achieve  a  very  great 
pecuniary  success,  he  was  otherwise  successful. 
Rintoul  died  in  1858,  and  I  believe  that  Thornton 

261 


THE   KEY   OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

Hunt  then  appeared  on  the  scene.  For  some  time 
before  his  death  Rintoul  had  ceased  to  do  much  of 
his  work.  It  is  usually  said  that  the  Spectator  sank 
into  utter  futility  during  the  interregnum,  but  this 
is  not  true.  A  great  and  successful  effort  was  made 
to  improve  it.  In  particular  Leigh  Hunt — then  near 
the  end  of  his  career — was  secured  as  a  contributor, 
and  wrote  under  the  heading  of  "  The  Occasional " 
some  valuable  though  very  little  known  articles,  the 
most  noticeable  of  which  is  the  account  of  Edmund 
Oilier,  the  publisher  of  Shelley  and  Keats.  They  were 
his  very  last  writings.  The  series  is  not  to  be  neglected 
by  any  student  of  literary  history.  The  Spectator 
was  then  largely  a  newspaper,  and  the  news,  and 
particularly  the  foreign  news,  was  much  improved. 
The  time,  however,  had  now  come  for  a  reorganisa- 
tion, and  gradually  Messrs.  Hutton  and  Townsend 
considerably  altered  the  character  of  the  paper. 
They  discarded  news  and  parliamentary  reports,  gave 
a  chronicle  of  the  week,  and  made  the  rest  of  the 
paper  articles  and  reviews.  They  did  far  more  than 
this.  They  shot  their  individuality  through  every 
part  of  it.  Two  such  rich  and  complex  personali- 
ties have  perhaps  never  been  associated  with  any 
paper,  and  the  singular  accordance  of  their  views 
turned  their  union  to  the  best  possible  account.  But 
undoubtedly  the  first  great  change  was  the  introduc- 
tion of  the  religious  element.  This  was  done  pro- 
nouncedly. Books  in  particular  were  reviewed  from 
the  ethical  and  religious  standpoint.  And  the  same 

262 


MR.  R.  H.  HUTTON  OF  THE  "  SPECTATOR  " 

i 
principle  was  applied  to  politics.     In  fact,  at  one 

time  Frederick  Maurice  had  a  department  of  the 
Spectator  all  to  himself.  Journalists  often  forget 
that  they  are  writing  for  a  baptized  people,  but  the 
editors  of  the  Spectator  did  not,  and  have  had  their 
reward.  Everywhere  supporters  rallied  round  them, 
and  the  fortunes  of  their  journal  underwent  a  total 
change.  It  ought  to  be  said,  however,  that  Rintoul's 
mark  is  on  it  even  now — in  appearance,  in  arrange- 
ment, and,  above  all,  in  a  certain  decorous  moderation 
of  tone. 

From  the  first  the  paper  under  the  new  regime 
was  uncompromisingly  Anglican.  It  has  often  been 
the  subject  of  amazement  to  Nonconformists  that  a 
paper,  one  of  whose  editors  was  brought  up  in  Non- 
conformity, and  was  a  Noncomformist  minister, 
should  treat  them  with  a  steady  hostility,  and  not  only 
with  hostility,  but  with  almost  lack  of  understanding. 
That  Mr.  Gladstone  should  not  understand  Noncon- 
formists is  more  intelligible,  though  he  was  originally 
a  Presbyterian.  But  that  Mr.  Hutton  should  never 
— I  use  the  word  advisedly — all  those  years  say  one 
sympathetic  or  kind  word  about  Nonconformity  is 
difficult  to  understand,  were  it  not  that  I  know  his 
career.  He  was  "  a  stickit  minister,"  and  his  whole 
estimate  of  British  Dissent  was  based  on  that  fact. 
I  do  not  mean,  of  course,  that  he  resented  his  fail- 
ure. He  was  infinitely  above  such  paltriness.  No 
man  was  freer  from  envy  or  jealousy,  and,  indeed, 
one  has  sometimes  found  "  stickit  ministers  "  most 

263 


THE   KEY   OF   THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

faithful  and  devoted  adherents  of  the  churches  that 
could  find  no  use  for  them.  But  he  argued  that  if 
there  was  no  room  for  his  ministry  in  Dissent,  there 
must  be  something  wrong,  and  he  was  perhaps  en- 
titled to  argue  in  that  manner.  He  did  not  like  to 
write  about  Dissent  at  all,  or  to  speak  of  it,  but  now 
and  then  he  gave  glimpses  of  his  true  mind.  For 
example,  in  writing  about  his  father's  successor  at 
Mill  Hill,  Leeds,  the  late  Rev.  Charles  Wicksteed, 
he  said  that  "  the  Dissenting  minister  has  to  appeal 
to  the  suffrages  of  the  congregations,  to  preach  as 
a  candidate,  and  to  pit  his  talent  against  a  number 
of  other  men,  presumably  his  equals  and  possibly  his 
superiors,  and  he  cannot  be  blamed  if  he  is  filled  with 
a  desire  to  surpass  them  when  a  wider  sphere  of  in- 
fluence is  to  be  attained."  This  created  an  urgent 
temptation  for  the  Dissenting  minister  to  shine  as  a 
preacher,  resulting  in  "  the  love  of  effect  and  admir- 
ation, and  a  tendency  rather  to  express  the  vein  of 
thought  and  feeling  recognised  as  proper  for  the  oc- 
casion than  to  follow  without  self -analysis  the  direc- 
tion of  the  unbiassed  mind."  I  could  quote  other 
passages  equally  relevant,  but  this  is  sufficient.  Mr. 
Hutton  had  not  a  few  Dissenters  first  and  last  as  his 
contributors,  but  he  very  rarely  allowed  them  to  say 
a  word  for  their  brethren  or  their  cause.  Even  when 
hardest  pressed,  as  by  the  demands  of  the  Scottish 
Disestablishers,  the  utmost  he  would  do  was  to  allow 
James  Macdonell  to  say  something  in  their  favour. 
For  a  little  time  he  wavered  about  Welsh  Disestab- 

264 


MR.  R.  H.  HUTTON  OF  THE  «  SPECTATOR  " 

lishment,  but  ultimately  opposed  it  stoutly.  This 
hatred  for  and  distrust  of  the  Christian  democracy 
led  him  to  Erastianism.  He  would  rather  have  a 
civil  court  decide  anything  religious  or  not  religious 
than  an  ecclesiastical  court.  Yet  the  Dissenters  read 
him  most  humbly  and  patiently.  They  bore  all 
things  from  him,  as  they  bore  all  things  from  Mr. 
Gladstone.  Week  by  week  they  kissed  the  rod,  and 
made  as  though  they  liked  it.  In  one  of  Mr.  Barrie's 
early  sketches  he  amusingly  described  the  travels  of 
a  copy  of  the  Spectator  from  manse  to  manse.  Mr. 
Hutton  was  well  aware  of  all  this,  but  it  did  not  alter 
either  his  convictions  or  his  feelings.  At  the  begin- 
ning he  was  much  out  of  temper  with  the  predominant 
party  in  the  English  Church,  but  as  time  went  on 
the  paper  became  as  churchy  as  the  Guardian,  and 
with  all  the  fairness  of  the  editors  it  never  was  pos- 
sible for  them  to  get  further  than  that  Dissenters 
had  a  right  to  toleration,  that  is,  that  they  should  be 
exempted  from  direct  persecution. 

The  politics  of  the  Spectator  were  for  long  soundly 
Liberal,  the  question  of  Disestablishment  being  re- 
served. The  first  struggle  it  went  through  was  on 
the  Civil  War  in  America,  when  it  took  the  side  of  the 
North.  Mr.  Gladstone,  it  will  be  remembered,  was 
in  the  opposite  camp,  and  declared  that  Jeff  Davis 
had  made  a  nation.  The  battle  cost  the  Spectator 
much,  for  Society  was  overwhelmingly  against  it,  but 
in  the  end  it  conquered  and  made  good  its  losses. 
Gradually  the  paper  became  more  and  more  Glad- 

265 


THE   KEY   OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

stonian,  though  not  blind  to  Mr.  Gladstone's  faults. 
Between  Mr.  Hutton  and  Mr.  Gladstone  there  was 
for  a  long  time  a  somewhat  intimate  friendship,  and 
his  admiration  of  the  great  statesman's  character 
knew  no  bounds.  One  of  the  very  few  cases  in  which 
he  allowed  himself  to  engage  in  a  personal  contro- 
versy was  when  Mr.  Louis  Jennings  made  a  bitter 
personal  attack  on  Mr.  Gladstone.  Mr.  Hutton  re- 
plied with  unusual  warmth.  By  this  time  he  had 
severed  his  relations  with  Mr.  Gladstone  owing  to  the 
Home  Rule  question,  but  all  the  more  on  this  account 
he  felt  it  necessary  to  assert  his  conviction  of  the 
honesty,  the  humility,  and  the  self-sacrifice  of  his 
old  leader.  Still,  Mr.  Hutton  was  not  blind,  and  per- 
haps the  most  felicitous  expression  ever  used  to  de- 
scribe Mr.  Gladstone  is  his,  "  A  Highlander  of 
genius."  As  is  well  known,  when  the  Home  Rule  ques- 
tion came  on,  the  Spectator  took  a  chief  part  in  op- 
posing the  movement.  The  paper  was  remarkable 
for  its  shrewd  estimates  of  politicians.  Though  it 
disliked  Mr.  Chamberlain's  Dissenting  zeal,  it  was 
never  for  a  moment  blind  to  his  great  power  and  to 
his  certain  place  of  predominance.  It  hailed  Mr. 
Asquith  at  first,  but  grew  colder  to  him  later.  It 
prophesied  Sir  Henry  Fowler's  place  in  the  Liberal 
party.  One  of  Mr.  Button's  chief  personal  antip- 
athies was  to  Mr.  Labouchere,  an  antipathy  ex- 
pressed more  strongly  in  private  than  in  public.  In 
conversation  it  was  once  said  to  him,  "  You  live  near 
Mr.  Labouchere?"  "Yes,"  he  replied  significantly, 

266 


MR.  R.  H.  HUTTON  OF  THE  "  SPECTATOR  " 

"  within  a  stone's-throw."  Although  the  Spectator 
has  supported  the  Government,  it  took  the  side  of 
Greece  when  other  journals,  formerly  conspicuous  in 
the  battle  for  freedom,  betrayed  the  cause.  The 
Spectator,  notwithstanding  many  things  to  disquiet, 
held  fast  to  the  faith  that  the  heart  of  the  nation 
cannot  be  crushed  down  by  appeals  addressed  to  its 
pockets  and  its  fears. 

I  cannot  fully  trace  the  gradual  change  in  Mr. 
Hutton's  theology.  From  Unitarianism  he  passed 
to  Mauricianism,  and  from  Mauricianism  he  passed 
to  High  Churchism,  and  it  was  thought  would  pass 
to  Rome.  I  believe,  however,  that  he  died  a  very 
decided  Protestant,  though  the  spell  of  Dr.  Newman 
grew  stronger  and  stronger  with  the  passage  of  time. 
The  transition  from  Mauricianism  to  High  Church- 
ism  was  not  so  unnatural  as  it  might  seem.  Maurice 
always  repudiated  the  name  Broad  Churchman.  And 
Mr.  Hutton  had  no  sympathy  with  the  ways  of  those 
who  distilled  a  residuum  of  meaning  from  the  Scrip- 
tures and  pretended  that  this  was  what  was  intended 
by  the  writer.  He  disliked  the  bleached  paraphrases 
which  certain  Broad  Churchmen  make  of  the  most 
passionate  words  of  Scripture.  He  was  always  aim- 
ing at  vital  force  and  original  freshness.  He  craved 
for  reality,  for  a  fresh  comprehension  of  the  living 
powers  of  religion.  Evangelicalism  he  disliked,  mis- 
understood, and  caricatured.  He  called  it  "  spirit- 
ual greediness."  At  first  he  had  a  great  deal  to  say 
against  eternal  punishment,  but  he  came  to  see  that 

267 


THE   KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

something  constructive  was  wanted,  something  pro- 
founder  and  more  impressive  than  criticism  can  fur- 
nish ;  and  it  is  not  altogether  surprising  that,  situated 
as  he  was,  he  found  it  in  the  High  Church  party. 
It  is  true  that  in  the  preface  to  the  second  edition 
of  his  theological  essays,  he  writes  against  both  the 
High  Church  party  and  the  Church  of  Rome.  But 
this  was  composed  in  1876,  and  cannot  be  said  to 
represent  his  final  opinion.  In  his  early  days  on  the 
Spectator  he  was  denounced  by  Canon  Liddon,  but 
by  the  end  the  vehement  preacher  was  his  close  ally 
and  contributor.  Mr.  Hutton  did  his  greatest  ser- 
vice in  the  years  when  Huxley  and  Tyndall  were  in 
their  plenitude  of  power.  He  was  an  adversary  that 
could  not  be  ignored  or  despised,  and  week  by  week 
he  maintained  unflinchingly  the  cause  of  a  spiritual 
faith. 

Mr.  Hutton,  I  have  said,  was  a  real  editor,  and 
made  his  paper  interesting.  The  excellent  summary 
of  the  week  was  always  one  of  the  best  bits  of  jour- 
nalism accomplished  in  Britain,  and  there  was  noth- 
ing elsewhere  of  its  kind.  He  did  much  less  than 
might  have  been  expected  to  get  able  coadjutors. 
One  of  his  early  finds  was  Mr.  Swinburne,  some  of 
whose  Poems  and  Ballads,  strange  to  say,  made  their 
appearance  first  in  the  Spectator — among  them 
Faustine.  Mr.  Swinburne  also  wrote  prose,  and  on 
one  occasion  produced  an  article  on  Victor  Hugo  so 
inordinately  long  that  it  had  to  appear  in  three  parts. 
But  the  alliance  was  not  one  of  a  kind  that  could  con- 

268 


MR.  R.  H.  HUTTON  OF  THE  "  SPECTATOR  " 

tinue,  and  Mr.  Swinburne's  later  aberrations  found 
few  severer  critics  than  his  late  editor,  the  article 
on  Swinburne's  literary  papers  being  as  trenchant 
an  essay  as  Mr.  Hutton  ever  wrote.  For  the  literary 
department,  of  which  he  had  the  control,  he  usually 
selected  safe,  rather  than  brilliant  critics.  He  was 
good-natured  about  giving  young  beginners  a  chance, 
young  pupils  of  Bedford  College  and  others,  and  the 
result  was  that  the  Spectator  reviews  were  sometimes 
below  the  mark.  Nevertheless  he  so  stamped  his  own 
personality  on  them  that  they  were  more  valued  by 
publishers  than  perhaps  any  others.  He  was  an 
admirable  critic,  not  widely  read,  but  a  brooding 
student  of  the  best  authors.  Trollope  had  in  him  one 
of  his  most  appreciative  reviewers,  and  he  was  first 
to  detect  the  authorship  of  Nina  Balakta.  Arnold 
and  Tennyson  were  among  the  many  who  owned  their 
obligations  to  him,  and  the  delight  with  which  he 
hailed  the  apearance  of  Mr.  William  Watson  will 
not  be  forgotten.  He  had  curious  prejudices,  and 
an  ethical  dislike  with  him  was  almost  impossible  to 
overcome.  For  example,  he  persistently  depreciated 
George  Meredith's  novels,  maintaining  throughout 
that  Meredith  was  essentially  a  coarse  and  affected 
though  clever  writer.  Sir  William  Hardman  has 
left  on  record  the  impression  produced  on  Meredith 
by  one  of  his  reviews.  Perhaps  the  great  secret  of 
his  success  was  that  he  poured  his  whole  soul  into 
his  life  as  a  journalist.  He  did  one  thing,  and  only 
one.  He  contributed  very  little  to  other  periodicals 

269 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  BLUE   CLOSET 

than  his  own.  His  books,  with  few  exceptions,  were 
reprints.  He  wrote  for  Mr.  John  Morley's  series  a 
monograph  on  Scott.  He  also  wrote  a  little  book 
on  Cardinal  Newman — good  and  suggestive,  but 
hardly  worthy  of  him. 

Although  he  disliked  public  appearances,  Mr.  Hut- 
ton  on  various  occasions  made  speeches.  The  most 
notable  of  these  was  one  in  connection  with  a  presenta- 
tion to  Dr.  Martineau.  He  also  contributed  papers 
more  than  once  to  the  Church  Congress.  The  one 
accessible  glimpse  into  his  private  life  is  to  be  found 
in  a  delightful  anonymous  volume,  Holiday  Rambles 
of  a  Wife  and  her  Husband.  This  was  a  really  re- 
markable example  of  Mr.  Hutton's  versatility.  The 
brightness  and  vivacity  of  the  lady's  contributions 
contrast  noticeably  with  the  graver  and  more  bur- 
dened style  of  her  husband.  But  all  the  letters  were 
from  the  same  hand. 


270 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

JAMES    PAYN 
(Published  March  31,  1898) 

IF  liking  and  gratitude  are  qualifications  for  writing 
about  a  man,  if  knowledge  of  his  works  is  a  qualifica- 
tion, I  should  be  able  to  write  about  James  Payn.  I 
think  it  is  a  bold  thing  to  say,  and  yet  I  will  hazard 
it,  that  I  have  read  every  one  of  his  hundred  books, 
and  read  many  of  them  more  than  once.  From  him 
I  first  received  encouragement  in  literature,  and  yet 
it  seems  impossible  to  say  much  about  him,  so  many 
thoughts  and  memories  crowd  into  the  mind.  A 
more  gracious  and  charming  figure  has  not  appeared 
in  literature  since  Sir  Walter  Scott  died,  and  though 
he  worked  very  hard  and  seemed  to  be  content  with 
his  rewards,  such  as  they  were,  he  never  had  justice 
done  to  him.  Now  that  he  is  dead,  his  biographers, 
as  a  rule,  have  had  very  little  to  tell  of  him,  save  what 
he  gave  them  in  his  own  two  volumes  of  Reminis- 
cences. Even  these  volumes  are  not  at  all  full,  and 
not  even  quite  trustworthy,  as  will  be  perceived  by 
any  careful  reader  who  will  compare  them.  The  real 
materials  for  James  Payn's  history  are  to  be  found  in 
the  volumes  of  Chambers's  Journal  during  the  years 
of  his  editorship,  which  commenced  in  1858  and 

271 


THE   KEY  OE  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

ended  on  the  death  of  Robert  Chambers  about  1871. 
All  his  best  work  is  to  be  found  there.  In  his  later 
years  he  broke  out  in  one  or  two  new  directions,  but 
upon  the  whole  he  kept  repeating  the  stories  and  the 
facts  which  had  done  their  duty  so  well  during  his 
connection  with  Chambers's. 

James  Payn  was  born  at  Cheltenham  in  1830,  the 
son  of  a  gentleman  residing  at  Maidenhead,  who  was 
clerk  to  the  Thames  Commissioners,  and  who,  al- 
though disinherited  by  a  wealthy  father,  was  able 
to  send  his  son  to  Eton,  Woolwich,  and  Cambridge. 
The  boy  was  delicate  and  clever,  but  somewhat  per- 
verse, or  rather  individual,  in  his  tastes.  He  hated 
school  life.  He  had  a  very  poor  opinion  of  boys. 
He  used  to  maintain  that  what  attracted  them  in 
novelists  like  Fielding  and  Smollett  was  simply  the 
indecency,  and  he  believed  that  there  was  no  limit  to 
their  cruelty.  Being  very  clever,  James  Payn  was 
able  to  take  a  fairly  good  place.  He  passed  third  at 
the  entrance  examination  at  Woolwich,  but  he  was 
never  interested  in  the  routine  work  either  of  school 
or  college;  in  fact,  he  looked  upon  the  education 
communicated  there  as  a  huge  fraud,  and  never 
ceased  to  denounce  it  as  ineffectual  for  the  purposes 
of  life.  He  busied  himself,  however,  in  other  direc- 
tions, indulged  his  literary  tastes,  spoke  as  a  debater 
at  the  Union,  where  he  figured  as  a  strong  Radical, 
and  acquired  the  friendship  of  men  like  W.  G.  Clark, 
whose  wit  he  greatly  admired.  Clark,  by  the  way, 
published  a  volume  of  sermons,  which  I  possess,  but 


JAMES   PAYN 

afterwards,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  abandoned  reli- 
gious belief.  While  at  the  University,  Mr.  Payn 
managed  to  get  a  volume  of  poems  published.  They 
were  entitled  Stories  from  Boccaccio,  and  they  re- 
ceived a  friendly  word  from  George  Brimley  in  the 
Spectator.  Payn  professed  to  be  indifferent  to  re- 
views, but  in  reality  nobody  that  I  ever  knew  of  cared 
so  much  about  them.  In  his  Reminiscences  he  speaks 
with  the  most  effusive  gratitude  of  Brimley's  criti- 
cism as  "like  ten  thousand  tonics  in  a  single  dose." 
He  was  easily  pleased.  All  that  Brimley  says  is, 
"  There  is  much  promise  and  some  performance  in 
this  little  volume  of  poems.  .  .  .  With  a  fresh  inci- 
dent of  domestic  life  placed  in  appropriate  scenery, 
or  with  a  topic  suggestive  of  an  unhackneyed  strain  of 
thought,  Mr.  Payn  produces  a  little  poem  of  interest 
and  freshness.  When  he  selects  a  theme  already 
worn  by  use,  though  the  skill  of  the  treatment  or  the 
merit  of  the  verses  is  just  the  same,  the  piece,  if  not 
commonplace,  is  comparatively  flat."  Imagine  what 
a  young  poet  in  these  days  would  say  to  such  a  criti- 
cism! But  perhaps  authors  were  modest  then.  He 
published  another  volume  of  poems  later,  but  the 
truth  is  he  was  not  a  poet,  although  within  his  limits 
one  of  the  surest  judges  of  poetry  I  have  ever  known. 
Gradually,  in  fact  very  quickly,  he  established  a 
connection  with  literature,  and  having  just  enough 
to  live  upon  apart  from  his  gains,  he  got  married, 
whenever  he  took  his  degree,  to  Miss  Louisa  Adelaide 
Edlin,  a  step  which  he  always  considered  the  wisest 

273 


THE   KEY  OF  THE  BLUE   CLOSET 

in  his  life.  Miss  Edlin's  brother,  Sir  Peter,  was 
much  tried  by  the  halfpenny  evening  newspapers 
some  time  ago.  James  Payn  at  that  time  was  young, 
and  younger  in  spirit  even  than  his  years.  To  the 
last  he  envied  youth,  and  mourned  over  the  passing 
of  the  years.  Dignities  and  gains  brought  no  com- 
pensation for  what  time  took  away.  His  heroes  and 
heroines  are  almost  always  youthful.  As  Mr.  Barrie 
said  years  ago,  "  The  noble  youths  of  Lost  Sir  Mas- 
singberd  are  noble  at  seventeen.  Indeed,  it  is  no- 
ticeable that  Mr.  Payn  likes  to  catch  his  heroes  and 
heroines  young.  None  over  twenty  need  apply.  I 
was  reading  Less  Black  than  we  are  Painted  lately, 
and  found  a  hero  and  heroine  engaged  to  be  married 
— a  serious  affair  even  in  later  life — at  the  age  of 
sixteen  and  a  half.  When  the  story  ends  they  are 
married  at  twenty-one — they  have  gone  through 
every  experience,  they  have  settled  down  to  spend 
the  few  remaining  years  of  life  quietly,  a  broken- 
down  married  man  and  woman  of  the  world.  If  all 
Mr.  Payn's  heroes  could  be  gathered  together  and  a 
schoolmaster  then  introduced  who  said,  *  Gentlemen, 
we  shall  now  resume  our  studies,'  the  effect  would,  no 
doubt,  be  remarkable."  After  his  marriage  he  had 
a  time  of  ideal  happiness  in  Lakeland.  Through  his 
father  he  had  come  to  know  Miss  Mitford,  in  whose 
letters  he  figures  largely,  and  though  he  never  took 
any  notice  of  the  fact,  not  always  to  his  advantage. 
He  was  remarkably  handsome  at  this  time,  and  con- 
scious of  it,  but  his  high  spirits  and  genial  humour 


JAMES   PAYN 

made  him  a  general  favourite.  Miss  Mitford  intro- 
duced him  to  Harriet  Martineau,  for  whom  he  had  a 
strong  affection,  and  he  made  the  acquaintance  of 
Dr.  Arnold's  children,  including  Matthew  and  Wil- 
liam. He  kept  busily  contributing  to  Household 
Words  and  Chambers's  Journal,  and  in  a  compara- 
tively short  time  went  to  Edinburgh  as  joint  editor 
of  Chambers's  with  Mr.  Leitch  Ritchie.  Thus  began 
what  was  incomparably  the  most  important  section 
of  his  life  work.  He  had  able  associates  in  Edin- 
burgh. Leitch  Ritchie  was  no  mean  writer.  There 
is  a  quiet  beauty  about  his  story,  Wearyfoot  Com- 
mon, which  takes  one  back  to  it  again  and  again. 
Robert  Chambers  was  in  full  vigour  and  happiness 
with  his  large  family  circle,  presided  over  by  the 
bravest  and  sunniest  of  wives,  "  Mrs.  Balderstone." 
Robert  Chambers  was  a  man  in  many  respects  akin 
to  Payn,  with  a  keen  sense  of  humour,  an  eager  in- 
terest in  literature,  a  quiet  contempt  for  many  of  the 
conventions  accepted  in  the  city  he  moved  in.  But 
the  strongest  man  there  was  William  Chambers,  and 
if  Payn  could  be  said  to  detest  any  one,  and  certainly 
he  was  a  good  hater,  he  detested  William.  Curiously 
enough,  he  was  always  of  opinion  that  the  whole  suc- 
cess of  the  Chambers  was  due  to  Robert.  There  is 
no  need  to  put  one  above  another,  but  as  a  matter  of 
fact  William  had  qualities  which  made  for  success, 
and  which  were  possessed  neither  by  Robert  Chambers 
nor  by  James  Payn.  He  understood  what  the  people 
liked.  He  had  a  strong  will  and  an  indomitable  per- 

273 


THE   KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

severance,  and  in  spite  of  what  Payn  says,  a  consid- 
erable literary  faculty.  If  anybody  doubts  this,  let 
him  read  the  little  book  on  William  and  Robert 
Chambers.  An  Englishman,  a  public  schoolman,  a 
University  man,  a  clubman,  a  humourist,  James  Payn 
found  himself  utterly  out  of  tune  with  Edinburgh 
society.  He  hardly  made  the  most  of  what  was  open 
to  him.  Lord  Neaves,  for  example,  was  a  very 
clever  man,  but  when  writing  about  him  and  Lord 
Deas  in  the  Cornhill,  Payn  spoke  of  them  as  Neaves 
and  Deaves,  evidently  thinking  them  persons  whose 
names  were  not  worth  spelling  rightly.  He  resented 
the  small  regard  paid  to  literary  men  not  otherwise 
endowed,  the  ridiculous  respect,  as  he  considered  it, 
for  professors,  the  undervaluing  of  such  men  as 
Alexander  Smith.  For  the  religion  of  Scotland,  and 
especially  for  the  hypocritical  part  of  it,  he  had  a 
profound  loathing.  The  climate  did  not  suit  him, 
and  his  wife  and  children  were  delicate.  He  had  a 
legend  of  a  four-wheeled  cab  being  blown  over  in  the 
Edinburgh  streets.  Nevertheless  he  went  on  assidu- 
ously with  his  work,  though  his  name  for  long  did  not 
emerge  into  the  general  knowledge.  After  some  years 
he  joyfully  returned  to  edit  the  Journal  from  Lon- 
don when  Robert  Chambers  made  his  move  there. 
He  took  up  his  abode  in  the  comfortable  but  modest 
house  in  Maida  Vale,  which  he  occupied  till  his  death, 
became  a  member  of  the  Reform  Club,  and  entered 
with  eager  zest  into  the  literary  life  of  London. 
With  society  he  had  no  concern.  He  went  to  bed 

276 


JAMES    PAYN 

every  night  at  ten,  his  habits  were  perfectly  regular, 
and  he  made  no  intimates  of  people  who  could  not 
talk  about  books.  In  his  earlier  days,  however,  he 
explored  pretty  thoroughly  some  of  the  obscurer  re- 
gions of  London  life,  and  had  strange  stories  to  print 
of  them,  and  stranger  yet  that  never  got  into  print. 
What  shall  I  say  of  his  work  in  Chambers's? 
Never,  to  my  thinking,  did  an  editor  do  better  work. 
Never  was  a  periodical  more  eagerly  welcomed  by  me 
month  by  month,  than  Chambers's  under  his  editor- 
ship. What  Mr.  Barrie  said  about  him  was  per- 
fectly right.  "  If  I  were  an  American  millionaire, 
and  could  afford  to  keep  a  novelist  of  my  own,  I 
would  first  offer  the  appointment  to  Mr.  Payn.  No 
brighter,  shrewder,  manlier  writer  touches  paper. 
His  very  name  puts  one  in  good  humour  like  the 
sound  of  the  dinner  gong."  There  was  nothing  in 
his  paper  that  he  did  not  do  well.  He  wrote  most  of 
the  stories,  short  and  long;  he  had  a  remarkable  eye 
for  poetry,  and  his  record  of  magazine  verse  far 
excels  that  of  any  other  editor.  He  was  a  good 
critic,  and  could  do  justice  to  authors  who  were  un- 
popular like  William  Barnes,  for  whom  he  had  a 
fervent  and  discerning  admiration.  Nobody  could 
pick  out  with  more  skill  the  good  points  of  a  dull 
book,  and  make  an  entertaining  article  of  them.  He 
could  describe,  he  could  write  biography,  and,  above 
all,  he  could  moralise  in  the  most  charming  manner 
on  life,  illustrating  his  observations  by  innumerable 
delightful  anecdotes.  The  essays  which  began  each 

277 


THE   KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

weekly  number  of  Chambers 's  were  nearly  all  from  his 
pen,  and  I  cannot  even  yet  understand  why  they  are 
so  little  appreciated.  Yet,  strange  to  say,  although 
there  were  spurts,  as  when  Lost  Sir  Massingberd  was 
published,  the  circulation  of  Chambers's  Journal 
began  to  decline  under  him,  and  went  down  so  alarm- 
ingly that,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  it  became  an  abso- 
lute necessity  to  resort  to  a  complete  change  of  policy. 
Accordingly,  Payn  was  dismissed,  much  to  his  in- 
dignation. William  Chambers  filled  the  paper  with 
his  own  contributions,  and  it  rapidly  recovered  its 
old  place  in  public  favour.  It  is  easy  to  say  that 
this  simply  showed  that  the  public  preferred  bad 
work,  but  this  is  not  true.  Some  of  the  shrewdest 
literary  people  I  knew  in  Scotland  at  that  time  ex- 
pressed their  delight  that  Payn  had  been  got  rid  of. 
What  is  the  explanation?  It  is  worth  while  to 
ask,  because  it  will  help  us  to  understand  why  Payn, 
with  all  his  outstanding  merits,  was  never  quite  an 
outstanding  man,  always  in  the  second  rank  and  never 
near  the  first.  To  begin  with  the  proprietors  made 
a  great  error  in  binding  him  to  write  for  no  periodi- 
cal but  Chambers's.  The  consequence  was  that  he 
wrote  too  much,  although  if  he  had  been  able  to  vary 
his  style  this  would  not  have  mattered.  He  could 
not  vary  it,  however.  He  wrote  always  as  a  club- 
man, as  a  man  of  the  world,  as  a  humorous,  and  oc- 
casionally sardonic  writer.  He  was  good-natured, 
but  once  said  that  Abraham  Lincoln  was  endeared  to 
him  for  ever  by  saying,  when  he  was  beset  by  place- 


JAMES   PAYN 

hunters,  that  he  was  glad  he  had  got  smallpox,  be- 
cause it  was  something  he  could  give  to  everybody. 
Lincoln's  rebuke  to  a  patriot  also  pleased  him  hugely. 
"  I  have  found,  Siree,  that  those  people  who  are  so 
precious  ready  to  spill  the  last  drop  of  their  blood 
are  extraordinarily  careful  about  spilling  the  first 
drop."  Humour,  though  a  precious  faculty  in  mod- 
eration, is  a  very  dangerous  one.  Sardonic  humour 
is  absolutely  fatal.  Mr.  Payn  had  a  fondness  for 
sensational  plots,  or  rather,  he  believed  that  they 
fetched  the  public.  But  his  humour  was  often  too 
much  for  him,  and  you  could  see  him  visibly  grinning 
at  his  own  sensations.  He  could  make  love  heartily 
enough,  but  Mr.  Barrie  keenly  remarked  that  there, 
too,  he  could  not  keep  serious.  "  When  he  comes  to 
his  love  passages  the  brackets  are  thicker  than  ever, 
as  if  he  must  find  some  vent  for  his  humour  or  die, 
and  he  rather  shirks  telling  how  much  longer  Her- 
bert (17)  held  the  hand  of  Christina  (16)  than  was 
absolutely  necessary.  He  is  given  to  leaving  the 
proposal  to  the  reader's  imagination,  and  if  he  faces 
it,  he  is  in  higher  spirits  than  ever  next  chapter,  like 
one  exulting  because  he  has  got  it  over."  He  made 
a  great  success  by  Lost  Sir  Massingberd,  the  story 
of  a  man  who  disappeared  in  a  tree.  He  followed  it 
up  by  another  novel  in  which  a  young  gentleman 
commits  murder.  The  idea  occurs  to  some  of  his 
friends  to  plead  insanity.  The  counsel  for  the  de- 
fence does  so  by  reading  the  best  poem  Payn  ever 
wrote.  "  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  we  have  caused 

279 


THE   KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

twelve  copies  of  this  most  extraordinary  production 
to  be  printed,  which  will  be  placed  in  your  hands,  lest 
you  may  imagine  that  any  latent  meaning  in  the 
verses  may  have  escaped  you  from  my  delivery  of 
them."  The  speaker  goes  on  at  great  length,  and 
the  jury  return  a  unanimous  verdict  of  not  guilty. 
When  Payn  did  such  things  as  that  his  readers  began 
to  feel  that  he  was  laughing  at  them,  and  resolved  to 
give  him  a  wide  berth  thereafter.  People  of  his  own 
class  and  culture,  on  the  other  hand,  laughed  at  his 
sensationalism,  even  when  he  did  not  wish  them  to 
laugh,  and  on  that  account  no  sort  of  justice  was 
done  to  his  real  qualities.  The  consequence  is  that 
he  fell  between  two  stools,  never  thoroughly  gaining 
either  the  cultured  class  or  the  general  public.  No 
doubt  his  books,  many  of  them,  had  a  large  circula- 
tion, but  this  circulation,  I  suspect,  steadily  fell  off, 
although  his  work  did  not  deteriorate.  Indeed,  one 
of  his  last  productions,  The  Disappearance  of  George 
Driffel,  is  as  good  in  its  way  as  anything  he  ever 
wrote.  But  he  sold  at  the  most  by  thousands  when 
others  were  selling  by  tens  of  thousands.  It  must  be 
acknowledged,  too,  that  he  had  no  distinction  of 
style,  and  no  real  pathos.  It  may  be  doubted  whether 
he  ever  made  a  reader  cry.  And  yet  what  a  store  of 
entertainment,  of  brightness,  of  wisdom  and  of  wit 
is  to  be  found  in  his  innumerable  pages! 

Mr.  Payn  became  literary  adviser  to  Messrs. 
Smith,  Elder  and  Co.,  the  most  notable  events  of  this 
connection  being  the  discovery  of  Vice  Versa  and  the 

280 


JAMES   PAYN 

rej  ection  of  John  Inglesant.  He  knew  good  wort  as 
few  did.  The  reader  has  been  always  safe  with  any 
book  of  fiction  bearing  the  imprint  of  Smith,  Elder 
and  Co.  Later  on  he  became  editor  of  the  Cornhill, 
which  was  turned  into  a  sixpenny,  but  did  not 
achieve  much  success.  He  began  well  with  the  idea 
of  making  a  readable  magazine,  but  was  bullied  by 
the  critics  into  the  old  style — two  slabs  of  a  serial, 
one  at  the  beginning,  the  other  at  the  end,  one  or 
two  short  stories,  an  article  on  Coral,  another  on 
the  Antibes,  and  the  periodical  did  no  good.  He 
wrote  much  in  the  Times,  especially  to  which  he  con- 
tributed reviews  of  novels.  I  have  seen  it  said  that 
Payn  never  wrote  unfavourable  notices.  It  is  not 
true.  He  was  a  very  kindly  critic,  and  did  not  at- 
tack where  he  was  not  provoked,  but,  as  he  said  him- 
self, he  was  in  the  habit  of  paying  off  those  who 
attacked  him,  giving  them  as  good  as  he  got.  I 
could  tell  some  extraordinary  and,  indeed,  almost  in- 
credible stories  of  these.  In  the  end  of  the  day  he 
was  generally  even  with  people.  He  spoke  very 
kindly  of  his  contemporaries,  but  looked  back  to 
Dickens  and  Thackeray.  For  Dickens  he  had  a  pro- 
found veneration  amounting  almost  to  idolatry,  but 
he  was  never  induced  to  write  down  what  may  be 
called  the  secrets  of  his  intercourse  with  "  the  mas- 
ter." His  social  essays  appeared  in  the  Nineteenth 
Century  and  elsewhere,  and  were  always  suggestive. 
As  the  years  went  on,  and  ill-health  increased,  the 
profound  melancholy  which  is  in  most  true  humourists 

281 


THE   KEY   OF   THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

developed  itself  very  strongly.  I  think  the  first 
explicit  declaration  of  this  appeared  in  the  Nineteenth 
Century  in  1879,  in  a  paper  called  The  Midway  Inn, 
where  he  said  that  the  desire  to  be  out  of  it  all  in- 
creased till  old  age  is  no  longer  looked  forward  to; 
that  there  the  attractions  of  the  place  are  dying  out 
like  those  of  Bath  and  Cheltenham.  The  middle- 
aged  are  so  weary,  that  if  the  choice  were  in  their 
hands,  and  affected  only  themselves,  they  would 
rather  avoid  long  life. 

This  mood  grew  with  him,  and  found  poignant 
expression  in  a  paper  called  The  Backwater  of  Life. 
It  began  very  early,  and  I  will  quote  the  poem  which 
in  his  story  is  used  to  prove  insanity  as  proof  of  this. 
It  is  really  one  of  the  most  characteristic  things  the 
author  ever  wrote: — 

"  When  the  doors  have  closed  behind  us,  and  the  voices  died 

away, 
Do  the  singers  cease  their  singing,  and  the  children  end  their 

play? 
Do  the  words  of  wisdom  well  no  more  through  the  calm 

lips  of  age? 
Are  the  fountains  dried  whence  the  young  draw  hopes  too 

deep  for  the  faith  of  the  sage? 
And,  like  the  flower  that  closes  up  when  the  east  begins  to 

glow, 
Doth  the  maiden's  beauty  fade  from  off  her  tender  cheek 

and  brow? 

Are  they  all  but  subtle  spirits  changing  into  those  and  these, 
To  vex  us  with  a  feigned  sorrow,  or  to  mock  us  while  they 

please  ? 
All  this  world  a  scene  phantasmal,  shifting  aye  to  something 

strange, 

283 


JAMES    PAYN 

Such   as,   if  but  disenchanted,  one   might   mark  in   act   to 

change. 

See  the  unembodied  beings  that  we  hold  of  our  own  kind, 
Friend  and  foe,  and  kin  and  lover,  each  a  help  to  make  us 

blind, 

Set  to  watch  our  lonely  hours,  ambushing  about  our  path, 
That  our  eyes  may  never  open  till  their  lids  are  closed  in 

death ; 
And  when  so  closed,  will  these  things  be  as  though  we  had 

ne'er  been  born, 
And  e'en  without  those  tears  which  are  dried  swift  as  the 

dews  by  the  morn, 
That  makes  us  feel  these  fancies  more,  so  strange  doth  it 

appear, 
How  the  memory  of  a  dead  man  dies  with  those  he  held 

most  dear, 
As  though  there  was  an  end,  with  life,  of  the  mockery  that 

beguiles, 
Our  every  act,  tricks  out  our  woes,  and  cheats  us  of  our 

smiles, 
And  makes  to  love,   and  scorn,  and  hate,  and  parts   and 

reconciles." 


283 


DR.    GEORGE    MACDONALD 
(Published  September  21,  1905) 

DR.  GEORGE  MACDONALD  died  on  September  18th  at 
his  son's  residence  near  Ashstead,  Surrey.  He  was 
nearly  eighty-one  years  of  age.  For  a  considerable 
time  his  mind  has  been  darkened.  He  was  almost  al- 
ways silent,  and  his  memory  was  gone,  but  he  was 
apparently  peaceful  and  free  from  pain,  and  he  had 
the  watchful  and  devoted  tending  of  his  children. 
It  is  no  matter  for  tears,  but  rather  for  songs  of 
praise,  that  his  beautiful  spirit  has  passed  from 
moonlight  and  dreamlight  and  darkness  into  full  and 
everlasting  daylight.  The  prayer  of  his  youth  has 
been  answered  at  last — 

"  God  give  us  heaven.     Remember  our  poor  hearts. 
We  never  grasp  the  zenith  of  the  time; 
We  find  no  spring  except  in  winter  prayers." 

I 

George  Macdonald  was  born  at  Huntly,  Aberdeen- 
shire,  in  1824.  His  grandfather,  Charles  Edward 
Macdonald,  was  born  just  before  the  battle  of  Cul- 
loden,  and  was  named  after  the  Pretender,  whom  his 
family  ardently  followed.  They  took  refuge  after 


DR.    GEORGE     MACDONALD 

the  fight  in  Portsoy,  and  hid  for  months  in  caves  on 
the  seacoast.  They  were  descended  from  fugitives 
who  escaped  the  massacre  of  Glencoe.  Charles  Ed- 
ward Macdonald  was  educated  at  the  famous  Fordyce 
school,  and  married  Isabella  Robertson  of  Huntly, 
whom  her  grandson  afterwards  made  immortal  as 
Mrs.  Falconer.  He  took  up  the  bleaching  business, 
and  was  also  agent  of  the  Aberdeen  Bank  at  a  salary 
of  £20.  Isabella  Robertson  was  brought  up  in  an 
atmosphere  considered  severe  even  at  that  time.  She 
was  allowed  to  learn  reading,  but  writing  was  forbid- 
den, "  for  fear  she  should  write  to  the  lads."  At  the 
time  of  her  marriage  the  young  couple  attended  the 
Parish  Church,  which  was  allowed  to  remain  in  an 
extraordinarily  neglected  condition.  One  day  the 
snow  lay  in  the  church  some  inches  deep,  and  Mrs. 
Macdonald  was  so  incensed  that  she  went  to  the 
church  of  Mr.  George  Cowie,  who  was  expelled  from 
the  Secession  for  allowing  the  Haldanes  to  preach  for 
him,  and  became  perforce  an  Independent  minister, 
the  minister  of  the  "  Missionar  Kirk "  which  sent 
forth  so  many  preachers  and  teachers.  Her  hus- 
band, however,  remained  in  the  Parish  Church  to  the 
last.  George  Macdonald's  father,  who  was  a  very 
handsome  man,  was  full  of  deep  religious  feeling, 
and  attached  himself  to  the  Congregationalists  in 
Huntly.  He  engaged  in  various  manufactures — flax 
linen,  potato  starch,  meal — according  to  the  exigen- 
cies of  the  times.  He  lived  till  1858,  and  died  when 
he  was  sixty-six.  There  are  many  stories  told  of  his 

285 


THE   KEY   OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

coolness,  his  courage,  and  his  kindness.  George 
Macdonald's  mother  was  Helen  Mackay,  from  Banff. 
She  was  married  in  1822,  and  died  some  ten  years 
after,  leaving  five  sons,  of  whom  George  was  the 
second.  Her  husband  married  in  1839  Miss  Mac- 
Coll,  the  daughter  of  an  Episcopalian  clergyman,  who 
has  lived  to  be  a  centenarian.  She  proved  an  ideal 
stepmother,  a  mighty  blessing  to  all  the  children  as 
well  as  to  her  husband.  George  Macdonald  was  very 
happy  at  home,  and  warmly  attached  both  to  his 
father  and  to  his  mother.  His  poem  "  A  Hidden 
Life,"  is  tenderly  dedicated  to  his  father  in  some  lines 
which  declare  that  it  was  his  father's  life  that  taught 
him  that  "  fatherhood  is  at  the  great  world's  core." 
But  perhaps  the  strongest  influence  of  George  Mac- 
donald's early  years  was  his  grandmother. 

In  Huntly  and  the  neighbourhood,  there  was  for 
many  years  a  general  indifference  to  religion.  So 
great  was  the  apathy  that  the  region  was  known  as 
the  "Dead  Sea."  It  was  Mr.  Cowie,  who  must  by 
no  means  be  confounded  with  Mr.  Cowie  in  Macdon- 
ald's novel,  who  broke  the  trance.  His  ministry  was 
an  apostolate.  He  established  Sunday  schools ;  all 
round  congregations  and  ministers  sprang  up,  spir- 
itual life  strengthened,  and  the  power  of  religion 
steadily  waxed.  George  Macdonald's  minister  was 
the  Rev.  John  Hill,  of  whom  all  that  need  be  said  is 
that  he  was  a  worthy  successor  to  Mr.  Cowie.  George 
Macdonald's  brother — a  man  even  more  gifted  than 
himself — John  Hill  Macdonald,  was  named  after  the 

286 


DR.     GEORGE     MACDONALD 

preacher.  George  Macdonald's  childhood  and  youth 
were  spent  at  The  Farm,  near  Huntly.  In  childhood 
he  was  very  delicate,  but  as  he  passed  into  his  'teens 
he  grew  stronger.  He  never  took  much  interest  in 
the  sports  and  games  of  childhood,  but  was  always  a 
diligent  reader.  The  religious  atmosphere  in  his 
father's  house  was  all-pervading.  There  was  worship 
morning  and  evening.  In  the  chapel  there  were  three 
services  every  Sunday  in  summer,  and  two  in  the  win- 
ter. There  were  also  prayer  meetings  during  the 
week.  A  strict  censorship  was  exercised  over  books, 
but  the  Pilgrim's  Progress  and  Robinson  Crusoe  were 
permitted.  When  George  was  eleven  he  was  found 
by  his  father  reading  one  of  the  Waverley  novels, 
and  severely  reprimanded.  The  book  was  taken  from 
him,  but  later  his  father  acknowledged  the  mistake. 
By  and  by  he  went  to  study  at  King's  College,  Aber- 
deen, where  he  gained  a  bursary  of  £15  a  year.  He 
had  no  experience  of  the  hardness  which  was  familiar 
to  so  many  of  his  contemporaries.  His  physical  wants 
were  fully  provided  for,  and  his  college  years  were 
happy.  He  does  not  seem  to  have  distinguished  him- 
self, though  I  have  heard  that  he  obtained  a  prize  for 
chemistry.  Among  his  companions  at  college  was 
the  late  Sir  W.  D.  Geddes,  who  came  to  be  Principal 
of  the  University.  It  was  remembered  by  his  contem- 
poraries that  the  boy,  who  was  a  very  good-looking 
lad,  was  particularly  careful  about  his  dress,  and 
inclined  to  be  vain  of  his  appearance.  He  was  very 
amiable,  however,  and  a  general  favourite. 

287 


THE   KEY  OF  THE  BLUE   CLOSET 

II 

In  1845  he  went  to  London  as  tutor  in  a  gentle- 
man's family,  and  there  is  much  reason  to  believe  that 
this  was  a  formative  period  in  his  life.  He  went  to 
Highbury  College  and  studied  for  the  Congregational 
ministry,  managing  somehow  to  get  a  fairly  good 
knowledge  of  German  among  other  things  in  the 
course  of  his  curriculum.  In  1850  he  settled  as  pas- 
tor of  the  little  Congregational  chapel  in  Arundel. 
He  was  in  very  delicate  health,  and  puzzled  a  simple- 
minded  congregation  with  his  mystical  sermons.  It 
is  easy  to  understand  this.  The  young  preacher 
forgot 

"That  stars  beyond  a  certain  height 
Give  mortals  neither  heat  nor  light." 

But  he  was  much  appreciated  in  his  Bible  class,  for 
which  he  used  to  write  poems.  Some  of  these  I  have 
read.  They  show  that  he  had  already  made  good 
advance  in  his  semi-mystical  studies,  and  was  familiar 
with  Novalis  and  Jean  Paul.  While  at  Arundel  in 
1851,  he  made  his  happy  marriage  to  Miss  Powell, 
the  daughter  of  Mr.  Powell,  of  The  Limes,  Upper 
Clapton.  Miss  Powell  was  slightly  older  than  he, 
and  pre-deceased  him  by  a  few  years.  There  were 
born  to  them  eleven  children,  and  of  that  household 
there  are  many  who  have  sacred  memories.  The  con- 
nection between  George  Macdonald  and  the  Arundel 
Congregationalists  terminated  naturally  and  without 
resentment  on  Macdonald's  part. 

288 


DR.    GEORGE     MACDONALD 

III 

There  followed  a  somewhat  obscure  period.  When 
Macdonald  left  Arundel,  he  preached  for  a  time  in 
Manchester,  where  he  became  intimate  with  A.  J. 
Scott,  whom  to  the  last  day  of  his  conscious  life  he 
maintained  to  be  the  greatest  man  he  ever  knew. 
Scott  lives  upon  the  testimony  of  those  who  knew  him, 
though  there  are  broken  lights  in  his  volume  of 
discourses.  How  Macdonald's  preaching  sped  at 
Manchester  I  do  not  very  well  know.  There  are 
those  living  who  can  testify  their  obligation  to  the 
preacher.  He  was  for  a  time  minister  of  a  church 
in  Bolton  composed  mostly  of  working  men.  They 
were  devoted  to  him,  and  only  his  ill-health  drove 
him  from  them.  In  a  letter  dated  Manchester, 
January  2,  1856,  he  said:  "It  will  be  some  time 
before  I  am  able  to  work  again.  We  are  going  to 
Devonshire,  or  somewhere  in  the  south,  for  a  while. 
My  congregation  at  Bolton  is  willing  to 
wait  any  time  for  me,  in  the  hope  that  I  shall  be  able 
to  resume  my  work  amongst  them."  In  the  same 
letter  he  speaks  of  "the  generosity  of  my  congrega- 
tion at  Bolton."  Ultimately  he  drifted  inevitably  to 
London  and  to  literature.  A  preacher  he  remained 
all  his  life,  but  he  was  not  called  to  the  regular  minis- 
try. He  became  what  he  called  a  lay  member  of  the 
Church  of  England,  but  of  course  his  sermons  were 
preached  from  Nonconformist  pulpits,  which  were 
most  hospitably  thrown  open  to  him.  Never  was 

289 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  BLUE   CLOSET 

Ihere  a  man  who  more  delighted  in  preaching.  To 
quote  his  own  words :  "  Thoughts  began  to  burn  in 
me  and  words  to  come  unbidden,  till  sometimes  I  had 
almost  to  restrain  myself  from  rising  in  the  pew 
where  I  was  seated,  ascending  the  pulpit  stairs,  and 
requesting  the  man  who  had  nothing  to  say  to  walk 
down  and  allow  me  who  had  something  to  say  to  take 
his  place."  As  early  as  1853  he  wrote  about  Brown- 
ing's Christmas  Eve.  He  reviewed  some  of  Lynch's 
early  writings.  There  were  at  that  time  a  few  Non- 
conformist periodicals  of  Liberal  tendencies,  the 
Nonconformist,  the  Eclectic  Review,  and  later  on  the 
Christian  Spectator.  But  he  had  not  yet  found  him- 
self in  prose.  He  was  still  a  poet,  and  the  first  an- 
nouncement to  the  world  of  his  real  genius  was  in 
his  dramatic  book,  Within  and  Without,  which  ap- 
peared in  1856,  and  was  followed  by  Poems  in  1857. 
These  books  were  full  of  unquestionable  genius  and 
profound  religious  feeling.  The  author  was  recog- 
nised by  discerning  minds  as  a  poet.  His  form  was 
imperfect,  and  conscious  of  this  he  was  always  trying 
to  alter  it.  But  he  had  more — much  more — than 
the  poetic  temperament,  and  although  obviously 
strongly  influenced  by  his  favourite  writers,  espe- 
cially perhaps  by  Spencer,  George  Herbert,  and 
Wordsworth,  his  own  strong  personality,  the  secret 
of  the  individual  nature,  was  behind  all.  These 
books  brought  him  many  friendships  which  proved 
of  priceless  value  in  after  years.  Among  them  was 
Lady  Byron — one  of  the  most  enigmatic  personalities 

290 


DR.    GEORGE     MACDONALD 

of  the  nineteenth  century.  Lady  Byron  was  in  a 
sense  the  mainspring  of  the  liberal  theological  move- 
ment of  the  fifties.  It  was  she  who  found  funds  for 
the  National  Review,  so  brilliantly  conducted  by 
R.  H.  Hutton.  She  was  the  most  intimate  friend  of 
F.  W.  Robertson.  Strange  to  say,  we  know  very  little 
of  her.  The  biography  which  her  friend  A.  J.  Ross 
of  Brighton  wrote  was  cancelled,  and  it  has  been 
hinted  not  obscurely  that  she  was  capricious  and 
difficult.  But  to  George  Macdonald  she  was  the  most 
steadfast  of  friends,  and  he  dedicated  to  her  memory 
his  first  novel,  "with  a  love  stronger  than  death." 
Another  friend  the  books  brought  him  was  Mrs. 
Russell  Gurney,  whose  letters  were  published  some 
years  ago.  This  friendship  also  lasted.  I  do  not 
know  whether  it  was  at  this  time  that  Macdonald 
came  to  know  the  Cowper  Temples,  but  he  became 
soon  after  closely  associated  with  them  and  their 
circle,  and  was  a  familiar  and  favourite  speaker  at 
the  Broadlands  Conference. 

Lady  Byron's  kindness  seems  to  have  absolved  him 
from  the  drudgery  of  teaching.  He  had  given  les- 
sons at  ladies'  schools,  and  among  these  favoured  in- 
stitutions was  the  school  of  Mrs.  Ellis,  at  Hoddesdon. 
It  was  about  this  time  that  he  came  under  the  direct 
influence  of  Maurice,  but  as  we  shall  see  there  were 
great  differences  between  the  two,  and  Macdonald 
had  a  Scottish  independence  of  mind  which  prevented 
him  calling  many  his  masters. 

The  poems,  however,  made  no  impression  on  the 
291 


THE   KEY   OF   THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

popular  mind,  and  very  few  were  sold.  A  step  in 
advance  was  taken  when  in  1858  he  published  Phan- 
tasies: a  Faerie  Romance,  the  first  of  many  similar 
books,  the  most  notable  of  which  was  perhaps  The 
Portent,  published  in  1864.  Macdonald's  Celtic  blood 
came  out  in  these  volumes.  The  last  gleams  of 
Highland  superstition  and  mysticism  linger  in  these 
stories — "  stories  of  witchcraft  and  second  sight,  and 
the  wheeling  and  marshalling  of  ghostly  armies  on 
the  moors  when  their  tarns  glimmered  white  in  the 
moonlight."  Macdonald  dealt  very  skilfully  with 
the  supernatural,  more  skilfully,  I  venture  to  think, 
even  than  Mrs.  Oliphant.  But  Phantasies  was  not 
the  best  of  his  books,  though  it  is  full  of  beautiful 
passages.  He  was  not  a  mystic  of  the  first  order, 
but  certainly  he  was  a  mystic  in  the  sense  that  he 
believed  and  apprehended  the  symbolism  of  nature, 
and  also  to  some  extent  the  symbolism  of  Scripture. 

IV 

The  emergence  into  fame  took  place  in  1862,  with 
the  publication  of  David  Elginbrod.  Mrs.  Oliphant 
wrote  to  Mr.  John  Blackwood  in  1863 :  "  It  was  at 
my  urgent  recommendation  (having  read  the  MS. 
and  made  such  humble  suggestions  towards  its  im- 
provement as  my  knowledge  of  the  literary  suscepti- 
bility made  possible)  that  Mr.  Blackett  published  it, 
and  the  author  is  not  only  a  man  of  genius,  but  a  man 
burdened  with  ever  so  many  children,  and  what 

292 


DR.     GEORGE     MACDONALD 

is  perhaps  worse,  a  troublesome  conscientiousness." 
Mrs.  Oliphant  earnestly  pleaded  with  the  editor  of 
Blackwood  that  he  should  insert  an  article  on  David 
Elginbrod,  but  apparently  she  failed.  She  managed, 
however,  to  get  in  part  of  a  sentence — "  a  rare  and 
chance  work  of  genius,  which  is  only  in  form  a  novel 
• — such  as  the  wonderful  book,  full  of  all  manner  of 
poetic  instinct  and  tender  wisdom,  called  David 
Elgiribrod,  which  neither  our  space  nor  purpose  at 
present  permits  us  to  enter  on."  The  book  made  way, 
and  it  is  on  three  novels  dealing  with  his  native 
region,  David  Elginbrod,  Alec  Forbes,  and  Robert 
Falconer,  that  George  Macdonald's  fame  will  depend. 
In  these  he  delivers  all  his  message,  and  is  in  every 
way  at  his  highest. 

The  novels  were  sermons  by  a  preacher  who  was 
almost  consumed  with  the  intensity  of  his  message. 
They  were  polemical,  a  protest  against  Calvinism, 
and  especially  against  the  dogma  of  eternal  punish- 
ment. They  were  fiercely  positive  in  their  preaching 
that  God  is  love,  that  God  is  Father.  They  de- 
nounced the  formulation  of  dogma.  They  were  full 
of  faith  in  the  ultimate  and  complete  victory  of  the 
light.  The  story  was  subordinate,  and  yet  it  was 
true  and  absorbing.  The  impression  these  books 
made  on  many  young  minds  could  never  be  exagger- 
ated. How  wonderful  it  was  to  see  the  young  genius 
come  forth  to  the  fight  against  the  time-honoured 
dogmas  with  his  dazzling  spear  of  youthful  scorn 
and  beautiful  indignation !  The  diamond  point  of 

293 


THE   KEY  OF  THE  BLUE   CLOSET 

his  virgin  weapons,  the  figure  of  the  preacher  all 
glowing  and  poetic  in  a  region  of  ultra  prose — these 
were  enough  to  fascinate  youth,  and  the  heart  was 
cold  that  did  not  fall  in  love  with  his  generous  and 
tender  dreams.  I  say  the  books  were  constructive. 
They  were  altogether  noble  in  their  tone  and  feeling. 
No  one  could  lay  them  down  without  thrilling  to  the 
thought  that  truth  and  goodness  and  God  are  alone 
worth  living  for.  Even  though  it  might  be  impossible 
to  accept  their  full  teaching,  they  throbbed  with  a 
spiritual  life  which  could  not  but  communicate  itself. 
They  are  books  of  the  true  prophetic  quality,  and 
ought  not  to  be  forgotten. 

Many  of  the  characters  were  drawn  from  Huntly 
people.  Thus  Thomas  Crann,  the  stonemason,  was 
James  Maitland,  the  strenuous  supporter  of  Mr. 
Cowie  in  his  struggle  against  the  intolerance  of  the 
Secession.  Murdoch  Malison  was  also  a  real  char- 
acter. His  real  name  was  Colin  Stewart.  He  be- 
longed to  Ross-shire,  and  was  a  licentiate  of  the 
Church  of  Scotland.  His  schoolroom  was  an  old 
handloom  weaver's  shed,  situated  where  the  Huntly 
Free  Church  now  stands.  He  had  a  firm  faith  in 
the  teaching  power  of  the  tawse,  and  the  value  of 
its  use  was  much  believed  in  by  the  parents  of  the 
children.  I  have  been  told  on  high  authority  that 
he  imprisoned  on  a  fine  Saturday,  nineteen  boys  for 
failing  in  the  Shorter  Catechism.  He  forgot  to 
let  them  out,  but  they  escaped  by  the  window.  On 
Monday,  he  flogged  them  all  till  the  strap  was  cov- 

294 


DR.    GEORGE     MACDONALD 

ered  with  blood — so  covered  that  he  had  to  send  it 
out  to  be  washed.  The  boy  whom  he  sent  on  this 
errand  was  James  Spence,  afterwards  the  Rev.  Dr. 
Spence  of  the  Poultry  Chapel,  London.  Stewart 
ultimately  settled  in  New  South  Wales,  and  oddly 
enough  he  married  in  Australia  an  old  aunt  of  the 
author  of  Alec  Forbes.  But  in  the  best  of  all  Mac- 
donald's  books,  Robert  Falconer,  we  have  the  largest 
autobiographical  element.  That  fine  character,  Mrs. 
Falconer,  in  whom  we  see  the  grander  type  of  char- 
acter which  Calvinism  has  produced  in  Scotland,  a 
character  in  which  a  flame  of  true  religion  burned 
under  a  thick  and  hard  crust,  was  his  own  grand- 
mother, upright,  just,  severe,  and  yet  at  heart  lov- 
ing, with  nothing  mean  about  her.  The  boy's  soul 
and  hers  came  into  contact,  and  he  saw  her  when 
he  wrote  Robert  Falconer  in  the  tender  light  of  holy 
memories.  The  story  of  Shargar  is  based  on  fact. 
The  grandmother  took  charge  of  the  family  of  a 
woman  who  was  begging,  hoping  to  save  them  from 
utter  ruin.  Two  of  them  went  abroad,  the  third  re- 
mained at  home  and  made  a  fortune,  living  till  1898. 
Mrs.  Falconer  believed  that  all  merriment  came  from 
the  devil  himself.  The  fiddle,  about  which  so  much 
is  said  in  this  novel,  was  in  reality  her  own  husband's, 
and  after  his  death  in  1819  was  actually  burned 
by  her  that  she  might  save  her  own  sons  from  per- 
forming on  it.  Her  antagonism  to  Roman  Catholi- 
cism was  extreme,  although  it  did  not  extend  to 
individuals.  One  of  her  grandsons  used  to  tell  of  a 

295. 


THE   KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

visit  which  he  paid  to  her  shortly  before  her  death. 
She  was  sitting  up  in  bed  reading  the  large  type  of 
a  newspaper  article,  although  ninety-two  years  of 
age.  It  was  in  the  year  1848,  the  year  when  many 
European  thrones  were  shaken.  She  was  deeply  in- 
terested about  the  Pope.  Addressing  her  grandson, 
she  said,  "  Laddie,  the  papers  say  that  amo'  a'  the 
changes  takin*  place  i'  the  warld,  they  have  gotten 
a  gweed  Pope  at  Rome,  and  I  have  been  prayin'  to 
the  Lord  a'  nicht  that  he  wud  gie  him  a  new  heart 
and  a  gweed  wife."  Eric  Ericson  is  suggested  at 
least  by  the  writer's  brother,  John  Hill  Macdonald, 
who  died  in  1858.  The  poems  which  are  strikingly 
beautiful,  are  entirely  his.  He  went  to  Russia,  as 
tutor  in  the  family  of  the  Chaplain  to  the  British 
Embassy  in  Moscow,  just  before  the  Crimean  war, 
remaining  there  till  near  its  close,  when,  after  a 
short  stay  in  Germany,  he  returned  home.  The 
cold  of  the  Russian  climate,  however,  left  its  marks 
upon  him,  and  consumption  carried  him  off.  George 
Macdonald  always  delighted  to  say  that  his  brother 
was  a  greater  and  more  original  genius  than  himself. 


The  remaining  events  in  George  Macdonald's  life 
are  comparatively  well  known.  He  had  a  period  of 
great  prosperity  when  he  was  working  with  Mr. 
Strahan,  the  publisher.  In  Good  Words,  Good 
Words  for  the  Young,  the  Argosy,  and  the  Sunday 
Magazine,  much  of  his  work  appeared,  and  was 

296 


DR.     GEORGE    MACDONALD 

highly  paid  for.  He  worked  very  diligently,  pub- 
lishing novels,  dramas,  poems,  and  stories  for  chil- 
dren. Macdonald  lived  in  his  most  prosperous  time 
at  The  Retreat,  Hammersmith,  where  he  exercised 
a  generous  hospitality.  Ultimately  he  found  it 
necessary  to  live  abroad  during  the  winter.  At  first 
he  stayed  at  Nervi,  near  Genoa,  but  he  soon  acquired 
his  home  at  Bordighera.  This  came  to  be  the  centre 
of  the  place  for  all  visitors,  and  no  one  who  was  ever 
there  will  forget  his  experience.  Macdonald  was 
the  most  generous  of  givers — time,  money,  thought, 
and  care  were  lavishly  spent.  He  preached  and  lec- 
tured constantly  to  the  visitors,  and  all  were  wel- 
come. In  the  summer  months,  he  came  to  this 
country  and  preached  and  lectured  so  long  as  he  had 
strength.  Few  authors  were  more  familiar  person- 
ally to  the  public,  and  his  grand  prophetic  figure, 
his  great  hope  in  God,  his  burning  zeal,  and  his  beau- 
tiful diction  made  him  one  of  the  most  charming  and 
acceptable  of  preachers. 

This  is  not  the  place  in  which  to  discuss  his  mes- 
sage. In  a  sense  it  is  true  that  he  preached  the 
love  of  God  to  a  generation  that  needed  the  word, 
but  as  time  went  on  and  thoughts  changed,  he  found 
his  true  sphere  as  the  great  prophet  of  immortality. 
Dogmatic  universalism  has  necessarily  failed  to 
commend  itself  to  the  modern  mind.  Men  hesitate 
to  say  how  long  and  how  far  the  choice  of  evil  will 
persist.  They  may  hope,  but  that  is  all.  Whether 
the  Tree  is  to  be  penetrated  with  life  to  its  remotest 

297 


THE   KEY  OF  THE   BLUE   CLOSET 

branch  when  it  is  thrown  out  into  its  final  blossom- 
ing of  holiness  and  joy,  they  cannot  tell.  There  is 
that  in  life  and  there  is  that  in  revelation  which  for- 
bids assurance.  But  the  prophet  of  immortality  in 
a  world  of  death  has  a  high  function.  It  is  con- 
fusing and  misleading  to  associate  Macdonald  with 
Maurice  and  with  Robertson.  They  had  many 
points  of  contact,  but  there  were  deep  differences. 
Neither  Maurice  nor  Robertson  could  be  called  the 
prophet  of  immortality.  The  truest  thing  perhaps 
ever  said  about  Maurice  was  that  he  touched  the 
concrete  as  a  bird  dips  its  wing  into  the  water. 
Macdonald  on  the  contrary  was  intensely  interested 
in  life.  Miss  Wedgwood,  one  of  Maurice's  most 
intimate  friends,  has  said  that  she  cannot  recall 
another  religious  teacher  who  so  consistently  refused 
to  contemplate  the  world  beyond  the  grave.  So 
much  was  this  the  case,  that  we  learn  from  his 
Memoir  that  it  was  even  possible  for  honest  readers 
to  doubt  of  his  belief  in  a  future  life.  As  for 
Robertson,  he  scarcely  believed  in  the  recognition 
of  friends  in  eternity.  Macdonald,  on  the  contrary, 
was  vehemently  persuaded  of  the  sanctity  and  per- 
manence of  love,  and  to  him  a  heaven  was  a  home 
heaven.  Only  those  who  have  read  his  books 
through  can  understand  the  strong  invigorating 
note  of  faith  which  runs  through  them.  And  all  of 
them  are  in  unison  with  the  first  chords  he  struck. 
Now  that  he  has  gone,  I  recall  some  words  of  his 
written  in  a  letter  of  1877 :  "  Sometimes  one  is 

298 


DR.   GEORGE  MACDONALD 

tempted  to  say,  '  Would  it  were  all  over,  and  we  were 
altogether  in  the  great  thought-room  beyond.  How 
one  is  tethered  by  the  heavy  chain  of  gravitation! 
But  I  do  not  say  it.  Let  me  be  just  as  He  wills,  for 
His  will  is  my  will.  Until  we  are  ripe,  it  is  not  good 
we  should  drop ;  then  we  shall  hang  no  longer.' ' 


THE     END 


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